Sometimes I’m scared.


This spring, Hoss and I went to the local university’s queer formal. It was a pretty normal thing: lots of queers dancing and screaming to songs that were in a grey zone of being incredibly gay while not being gay enough. If I can’t recognize the singer, you need to up the gay. I drank some cake-flavored vodka in a parking lot with a genderfuck and stood around smoking, while amateur drag queens and a tiny little Amadeus climbed up the steps. Hoss and I aren’t much for dancing, so we headed home. On the way out, I think he dared me to or I just have the natural inclination to steal things (shrug), but I grabbed a life-size Hello Kitty balloon on the way out. We ran down the street with her trailing behind us in the wind, shoved her into the car, and drove to Hoss’s apartment where she has remained ever since.

In the arms of an angel ...

In the arms of an angel …

But in all seriousness, this is not something to be taken lightly. Hoss’s apartment was clearly haunted before, what with the flickering light bulbs and the Wilhelm screams, and we clearly just gave the demon a vessel.

As time passed, Kitty-san’s power grew. Three weeks ago, I was alone in the apartment writing, and she was just hopping around the room, floating around the kitchen. One time, when I looked up, she was gone. This naturally made me nervous, so I went to look for her, figuring that it was better to know where a demon is than to not know. She had floated into the bedroom, looking into the closet with those uncannily wide set eyes. She probably wanted my leather daddy jacket, if I had to guess. She follows me around the house as I get ready every morning. Since basically everyone who lives in the apartment is MIA, Kitty-san the demon is our new roommate. Visitors regularly punch her and tackle her, putting our very immortal souls in danger.

Did I mention that she only has one leg? SpoooOooOopy!

Did I mention that she only has one leg? SpoooOooOopy!

I’m Not Dead Yet!, or A Series of Collegiate Events


In accordance to university tradition, I moved into my dorm room last Thursday. I was disappointed that my roommate Jack, the most daring swordsman in the Western Hemisphere, did not engage me in combat. I feel it would have been the start of a wonderful and eternal rivalry.

Jack does have his interesting side. He’s a proponent of the free software movement, which I only heard of the day he told me about it, and I had to Google it. He also smokes an electronic cigarette, with flavors like bubblegum and strawberries. I was embarrassed to admit that I had been using regular cigarettes, with tobacco leaves.

There was a point during the week where I had to wake up early for my class, and Jack was playing that damned game League of Legends. I asked him when he was going to bed, and he told me, “five minutes, max.” I kept my eye on the clock. Fifteen minutes later, Jack got in his bed, and I could feel my blood boiling.

Then I went to a dubstep concert. Mostly I’m used to being invited to the most prestigious balls of the European gentry, complete with carriages and overwhelming senses of entitlement. But this was completely different. I was headbanging with some comrades in arms, and a strange girl joined us. When the song stopped, she said, “Guys, I’m tripping baaaaaaaaaaalls here. So what’s up with you?”

There was also a small spat for the destiny of my soul. I had enrolled in a Post-Colonial Literature class, The professor was British, which was funny because he was telling us how the Empire had subjugated native peoples across the world. I soon found out that it was boring, boring, and idiotically boring.  My classmates were complete and utter douche-nozzles who wanted to sound as smart as the professor, and they used loquacious statements to illustrate their points.

After the third class, I had a moment of clarity, and I charged to my adviser’s office, and saved my soul from an eternal damnation of discussing economics, capitalism, and the like. Or a semester’s worth of misery, whatever.

My roommate could very well kill me with a sword.


Since I’m a professor of the most studious variety, sometimes I find it necessary to bolster my education. Such previous endeavors have led me to CAKE concerts, prairie dog towns, and haunted houses. While I was preparing for my studies, I learned my roommate’s name. Being of unsound mind and possessing technology I’m too irresponsible for, I started stalking him on Facebook. (Really, who needs to socially interact when you can just do a Google search?)

Everything looked great. He likes Blade Runner, Serenity, and Nine Inch Nails, all things that I enjoy as well. He even enjoys The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I was starting to feel very pleased about this arrangement, when I saw something on his timeline.

He fences. With swords. He’s probably a mix of D’artagnan, Zorro, and a ninja. En garde, motherfuckers!


We have not had any correspondence. I assume that its because he is too busy perusing my Facebook profile, gathering information, learning my weaknesses. He has no doubt learned of my prodigious skill in the exquisite art of combat, and wishes for the honor of defeating me.

I can imagine the scene now: my roommate, we’ll call him Jack, will have moved in long before me. When I come inside the dorm room with a laundry basket full toiletries, clothes, and a lamp. He turns to greet me, recognizes me from a great tournament, and draws his rapier. Throwing the basket at him, I draw my katana.  We duel for a while, but, just when my victory seems eminent, he bests me. I lie bloody on the dorm floor, victim to his over-compensating penis sword.

I’ll write again in a couple months if I’m still alive.