Stop it, that creeps me out.

I should change the name of this blog, I only update it at work and more often than not I write about what it's like here. Anything to keep me sane in the quiet nights, the patient hours...

You know what bothers me more than anything here at the front desk of the hotel? It's not the drunks that wander in, it's not the strange folks asking if they can wait for a bus in the lobby and take the coffee, it's not the fear that I might go insane and kill people or the thought that the elevator might fill with blood and pour into the lobby, no - the thing that bothers me the most is when people over the phone ask me for my name. 

I get shivers every time. "And your name is?" they ask while I answer questions and give estimates on room rates. At first it was a fear that any mistakes they made would then be blamed on me, they had my name and could say, "Well Kyle told me this..." but now it's just this fear of me losing my anonymity. Why are you calling for information about room rates for your business at one in the morning? And why do you need to know my name? 

I really can't explain how unsettling it is. I guess the only comparison would be imagine if a stranger walked up to you and asked for directions. "Which way to the Cinnabon?" they ask. You look like someone who enjoys a good Cinnabon after all. You glance around, get the general idea and say: "Just head past the Urban Outfitters and hang a right at the Orange Julius." they look at you kind of skeptically and say, "Hmmmmm.... okaaaaaayy....." after an uncomfortable moment, they look you in the eye and say: "And your name is????" 

Are you uncomfortable yet? Now imagine they grab your butt and then head off to the food court. 

Spiritual Implications

shoot. 

Give me some time to figure this out, I'll have a post about 'There Will Be Blood' soon. 

You tell me.

Last night was our dessert party. If you ask me, it was amazing. Then tonight, I went to a friend's graduation party. It was my first House Party, College style, and I was afraid a sober-head like me might not have much fun. But once again, it was amazing. If you crack a couple of jokes, you might get some laughs. If some of the people around you have had a couple of drinks, you get a little funnier, and the best part is that you know those jokes weren't that funny. Italics are my favorite thing. 

Here's something I want your opinion on. I have a friend Justin. Now Justin is the Thor of friends. I attribute all of my friends to the Norse god that matches them the best. Unfortunately for the rest of my friends, and fortunately for Justin, I am only familiar with Thor. Now Justin told me this: "When I was a kid, I was attacked by a horse."

What images run through your mind?

Here's what ran through mine. I saw a young boy, crawling into his bed at the end of a busy day. It has begun to rain, and he is very tired. Suddenly, lightning snaps across the sky. The light from the bolt illuminates the area, revealing in the window the long nose, rain-soaked main, and cold eyes of a steed. Yes, the hateful gaze of a horse burns the air. 

As the thunder trudges through the air, the horse reels back, letting out a powerful whinny, crashing his hooves through the window. It leaps through the broken glass, as the young boy pulls the comforter up to his neck!

so yeah, what about you?

Here's Hoping

So I was in my "Reading Major Texts" class, and discovered that basically the entirety of our study will be focused on Walt Whitman. A great American, they say. Hey laid the foundations for American poetry, the father of our nation's verse. 

These things I don't doubt. 

It did, however, depress me terribly. This man, this great man whom entire classes are devoted to, died very poor and felt himself to be a literary failure. What fate, then, awaits me, the poor aspiring writer? One of the main (admittedly selfish) reasons I want to be a writer is to leave some kind of impact behind me, but is it worth the predicted life of a starving artist? 

I quickly decided the best thing to do was to work towards becoming the next Danielle Steel. I mean come on, we can't all be Steven Kings after all. 

Some times I think about supporting myself on Ghostwriting and the like. I thought more and more about different ways to support myself, and eventually my wandering train of literary thought drifted across the prairies and plains of ambition, and eventually made a stop at the station of Criminal Dramas. 

Forgive me for the awful metaphor. 

What I'm trying to say is that I thought about what it would be like to write for "CSI" or "Law & Order" or the like. I thought about how much it would suck, sitting in a room with other writers, trying to come up with the most terrible people doing the most terrible things to other people. Imagine sitting around and thinking up murders and rapes and all kinds of terrible things and then writing it all down for prime time television. 

If I had that job, I would definitely need a puppy.