It's in my haaaaaaaaaaaaaands and I savor every moment of this! So here I am; alive at laaaaaaaaaaaaast! And I savor every moment of this!

Oh wait; I don't feel any of those things. In fact, I just want to jump out of the nearest window and plummet to my death. Writing papers sucks. Especially ones that are due tomorrow and you don't know a thing about what you're supposed to be writing. But in general, they all suck. Unless it's some sort of creative writing assignment. That way, you're in control of the bullshit that goes into the paper and no one can say a damned thing about it. But stuff about Egypt? That shit is set in stone (see what I did there?). Really! There is absolutely NO way to bullshit about this. The professor of the class has a fucking PHD in this bullshit. So he knows whether or not I know what I'm talking about. I mean, what kind of faggot gets a PHD in Egyptian whatchamacallit?! That's almost like getting a PHD in NOTHING IMPORTANT! Oh wait, that's EXACTLY like that. HOLY SHIT, WHAT A DOUCHEBAG! You have to see this go on for an 90 minutes and up about shit from Egypt. I mean, that's great and all, for the Egyptians who learn their history through said shit, but where does that leave us? Am I Egyptian? No. Is the professor Egyptian? Mostly likely not. The why care? Because people (read: faggots) get a boner off of ancient Egyptian crap.

Now, if only I could major in being an asshole...

Don't panic! DO NOT PANIC! I have a 6-10 page paper due tomorrow at 7pm on Egyptian... stuff? I don't know what exactly I'm writing on, but there's a good chance that it has something to do with Egypt. And the stuff located in Egypt. And the stuff that's located around the stuff in Egypt. And why it's there...

And blah.
And blah.
And blah.

Let's go pack a pipe, smoke, and forget about this damn thing. Maybe we can fly on some dragons and stuff. We can shoot fire at the peasants, hence burninating them. That's right; burninating.

Semi-colons are cool. If you don't like semi-colons, you suck. I'm in LOVE with them. Semi-colons forever!

Work sucks, though. I know. She left me roses by the stairs; surprises let's me know she cares. Except none of that EVER happened. Ever.

I feel that the quality of my work has been suffering due the depression/weed smoking of late. Look at all of those sentence fragments up there. Go on; I'll give you a second. Horrible, isn't it? But this just seems like a rut that I'm not going to be able to get out of for a while. The weed smoking is totally welcome, though. The depression has to go. ASAP, I might add.

But alas, I like using the word "alas." I'm not entirely sure on what it means, but I use it anyway. Am I part of the problem with America? You know; that whole thing where basically every kid on the planet is a FUCKING RETARD? Have you noticed that? I certainly have. I think stupid people should stop breeding and making hideous clones of themselves. Stupidity is an epidemic, people, and we have to stop.

Mass murder, anyone?

The gym is very much like my uncle's basement; you're constantly afraid and you leave sore and sweaty after every visit. Remember that earlier post where I was prompted (nay, FORCED) to go to the gym due to my insatiable munchies? What? You don't read this blog so you wouldn't know? Well yeah, I went to the gym that next day and felt great afterward. The next day with my friends for what was I thought was going to be a normal workout until we were approached by what seemed to be a decaying corpse and given work-out advice. And damn did that corpse work us. His routine had us work every single muscle in our body. Every. Single. Muscle. I feel like a care hit me. Except that care is from Twisted Metal. And it's on fire (but since it's from that universe it probably is on fire). If I can keep this up I can see good things happening in my future. My six-pack ab, rap music video filled future. There's also bitches. Did I mention the bitches? Bitches. Respectable young women. And bitches.

This is almost a high rambling since I woke up still high from last night. Class was murder. The parts of it that I was conscience for, at least.

Mad commas, right?

Big...
Black...
BATMAN!

NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA BATMAAAAAAAN!

And Shaft. Can ya dig it?

... using only my forehead to type!

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fbddfvnjfkfklffsfnekjsnffsdfsddnjfs.jfsnsfd.hjsskngredk.zkmfxmfxkmfx,cmkcf,fxmkdfxm,
rgkjfrgmklgrj.gkjgklm/fgljigkmr.hukfweklklmiwshfdtjhnerjnb ntjkhjkhjbjhngy7y67tyytuy7876ttytyuhj7uiytr54e5rt788i9ioiuy7yu7hy6tyu7h6jyt6y7uui
ijenfwfwgeklngrklmlijgtyijijiiifkjfmfjdklfdkldkliwuw389ury6rgyuwi8euie67wyhuwiojwiowqwu8uiwewehu
ijeufeiuuuui bihjfejjufgbeiiojie nnvkekjrekjejkiojwioowo921iowqhuaskckmlsakmwqoin nnde
]iffioikiwfeqopw[pppowsqkosa;,.sadefwiojefwijowefioj

(Note: I had to do some editing to clean up grammatical and spelling errors)

Crazy, huh? I'll never forget those smack talking midgets from outer-space. They don't seem like much, but those little fuckers can drink you under the table any time, any day!

Give you my desire. Splendid like a fire. Speedy Cat!

Those are the words I hear from the people down at the gym every time I walk in. Why? Because I am the fastest mother fucker alive!

I don't know where I'm going with this, but my farts smell like pepperoni from Domino's and I really hate myself for ordering it last night. Or do I? I probably wouldn't have gone to the gym today had it not been for that pizza; a pizza that kept me up in writhing pain all throughout the night. And not just physical pain, but also mental. I felt like such an asshole the entire night as I sat there watching American Pie: Band Camp, or whatever the fuck that shitty movie is called. But, and this may be a misuse of the phrase, "no pain, gain." Weight gain, that is. And then it's followed by the will to actually do something about said weight gain.

I'm gonna go do my laundry and then take a shower. Holy shit; I'm being productive.

Update (to something I haven't posted yet): A sudden bout of depression has come over me. There go those endorphins. Poop.

I ain't trippin', either. But thew point of this is. This is the blog. The one I am writing for. It's existence is because. Dominos pizza. Have you ever gotten something and then immediately regretting it? That's exactly how I felt moments ago as I was putting my phone down after placing an order from Dominos pizza. WTF?! I just ate $9 burger and it definitely not worth it. And now I'm spending more money on pizza that I KNOW I don't want.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

Liek srsly.

LOL

OMG

Update: I just woke up from my pizza/weed induced coma and I have to say that I back up my early claim of that pizza buying to be a mistake. I feel like literal shit. I am shit. I have become one with shit, just as a I am one with salt, the TV, and a couple of other things that I don't quite remember. I have also decided that I have a date with the treadmill tomorrow (read: later today), and that bitch likes it rough. It's gonna be a good day tomorrow.

Kids, I urge you. Do not, and I repeat, DO NOT smoke weed. It may be not be the most costly of habits, but it turns into one after all of the food that you waste money on. Food that only makes you feel more like an asshole than you actually want it to.

I have to say, though, that I am still fairly high right now, but I can't tell. It's kind of a weird state; one that I can't really explain. Whatever. I'm going back to bed.

That's not the title to a gay poem that I'm about to write. Because, you know, I'm not. Although it may be the title to a gay poem that someone else has written already. That seems probable. A fat, emo chick probably wrote it. While she was crying. And cutting herself. And eating. And putting blood in her food. And then complaining that there's blood in her food. Because she's a fat, emo chick. And that's what they do; complain. You know what? All women complain, but I'm not going to get into that. That's already a well known fact. Everyone complains. I complain. A lot. About stupid things. Wait a second...SHUT THE FUCK UP, PHILOSORAPTOR! NO ONE ASKED FOR YOUR OPINION!

Ahem... Excuse that sudden outburst.

What the fuck was I writing this entry for again?... AH, YES! Alone. Loneliness. Everyone in my suite left for the weekend. Now I'm the only person in the goddamn room. As I sit here writing the blog entry, naked, I'm pretty fucking bored. I just went on a mini-rant about fat, emo chicks. That kinda bored. I need a drink in me, pronto! And a blunt. Oh god how a blunt would make my day. This would be pretty fucking trippy, though. All of the lights are off and the curtain is down. This is mainly because I'm naked, but that's besides the point. The only thing lighting this barren hellhole is the shine from my computer screen. And thiiiiiis cryyyyyyyyyystal baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall. It's always cloudy, except for, when you look into the past. One. Night. Staaaaaaaaaaaand. One night stand, OH! ONE NIGHT! ONE MORE TIME! Thanks for the memories... SHUFFLE MOTHA-FUCKA!

Modern Warfare 2 is almost out. Just under 17 days and I'll be playing one the most anticipated games of 2009. Nay; OF ALL TIME!

I thought I'd bring that up. What? You didn't need to know that? FUCK YOU!

Someone should totally come to Albany and keep me company. And by company, I mean company. No fat, emo chicks. Skinny, emo chicks are a bit iffy, but whatever.

OK; no emo chicks. At all. Let me take you where I live. Ferrari switch. When I whisper in your ears, your legs hit the chandeliers. Passion fruit and sex all in the atmosphere.

COCOA BUTTA.

Not everything written with caps lock switched on needs an excalmation point at the end.

I might as well change the title of this blog to "McFinder's Fuck-ups: Because god knows I can't do anything right". But right now my life is going pretty good which doesn't make for good writing. With the exception that I made Racheal mad, which in turn made me feel like an asshole, which makes me feel bad. And that I'm a sloppy drunk.Almost there...

Other than that, everything is going swimmingly.

Until I fuck up next time, this is Johnathon saying "Fuck off."

P.S.
If you're reading this go see your doctor, Quoc.

Hear Jerusalem bells a-ringin'
Roman cavalry choirs a-singin'
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
FOR SOME REASON I CAN'T EXPLAIN
Once you've gone it was never
Never an hoo~nest word,
And that was when I~ ruled the world

No srsly, liek, thur sum be1z plaiin out mah w1Nd0w and itz liek OMG sersly liek cum on guyz.
lulz i sayd cum on guyz. SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO funnie! liek srsly

Update: This made so much more sense in my head, yesterday. Liek srsly.

Evidence points to "yes".

Have you ever fucked up so bad that even you're best friend who stands by your every decision thinks you're a piece a shit that serves nothing but suffering? If you haven't well, let me tell you, it isn't fun. You feel useless, unwanted, stupid. You feel like a big steamy pile of turd. Yummy.

Last night was the straw that broke the camel's back that is my sanity. I flipped. It could have just been a very extreme case of the jitters from that NOS energy drink I had, but it still happened and it still scared the living bejesus out of me.

"How am I going to kill myself?" was the mainly what was going through my mind along with ways that I can escape. It almost seems as if death is the only way out of this misery. "I want a way that is easily found and fun" I thought. So here's a couple of things I came up with (or didn't, for that matter):

1) Shooting myself in the head
Although this may not be the most original idea, I can add a little flair by taping it on my web cam. I could even do it somewhere with a lot of traffic like, say, the Academic Podium here at UAlbany. That would cause quite a stir, although I'm not the one to seek attention.

2) Suffocating myself
This one is just plain ol' stupid. It's worth a shot, though.

3) Jumping off a building
Again, I'm not an attention seeker, so this wouldn't seem like the right way to leave this miserable planet.

4) Challenging a grizzly bear to a fight
We're getting somewhere...

5) Living out the rest of my miserable life
This is more of a symbolic suicide as it is not my physical self that will die, but my "soul".

These are all good ways to perish, but not quite what I'm looking for. And then it hit me (not hard enough to kill me though; I don't deserve that kind of satisfaction). Why don't I pay to go skydiving, except instead of using a parachute to break the landing, I use my face. Think about it: your last moments in life are spent free falling back to earth from +10,000 ft! Soaring, like a bird, through the sky; not a care in the world (by "soaring" I mean falling to your death). That and I've always wanted to go skydiving so it might as well be the last thing I EVER do. When I hit the ground, there's no way that I could survive. There's no way you could even feel a thing. Just like that, all of my problems are gone.

But the sad truth of it all is I can't and probably never will take my own life (who knows what other shenanigans I'll get myself into) . I have too much on this hell hole to leave behind. My mother is one thing. I can't bear the thought of putting through such grief; such pain. Then there's my friends, whom I also care about, even if they do think I'm as much of a fuck up as suicidal me thinks. Don't forget my debt to the government from these student loans. Someone has to pay them off and that someone is moi. I can't leave my family with a $10,000 debt. How selfish would that be? Last, but not least, there's my aspirations. There are so many things in life that I have yet to experience. So many things that I have to accomplish, even though, due to my current predicament, I may not get to accomplish any of these things. I have to at least live long enough to pay my debt. And have a threesome. The good kind.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a presentation to write up.

Right now I'm sitting at the library not doing any work (as usual). I'm bored as hell, looking up anything I possibly can on the internet that has nothing to with Hispanic-American culture. Hopefully, the 20 minute presentation will just write itself and be ready for me by Wednesday.

In the meantime, though, I just looked at my hands and the experience was sublime to say the least. It was like I was looking at the first time; as if I had been born again. One would think that this shit only happens when you've taken a nice dose of acid (which I never have), but they would be completely wrong. Never had I seen something so profound, so thought inducing in my life.

How do they work?
Why do I have them?
Punching stuff?

THAT LAST ONE WASN'T EVEN A QUESTION!

SHUT UP!

I wouldn't even be able to write the pointless post had it not been for the bad-ass pussy punchers. I wouldn't be able to pwn n00bs in COD4; not Street Fighter IV, not Gears of War! That shit rhymed therefore it meant something more than just me procrastinating.

People! Look at your hands and adore them for they are gifts from the heavens; from the gods themselves! Gifts that we must use to better humanity. Or jerk-off. However you're feeling.

I have a test tomorrow morning at 9. So to prepare for it I sat in my room and watched TV and surfed the interwebs for about 11 hours. I thought I'd let you guys know. I mean you, Quoc.

While I'm here I might as well share my weekend with you. Again I mean you, Quoc.

This weekend was homecoming so my mom drove up to see her beloved son (that's me). But since that would've been pretty lame, I asked her to bring my two of my best friends with her. I mean, my mom is cool and all, but I don't think she would've approved bringing me a bottle of Captain Morgan and going shot for shot with me, so yeah. Anyway, while my mom was here we went shopping and got some grub down at Fridays. Everything was going great. But when she left, we did what any college student does on a Saturday and drank 'til fat chicks looked acceptable (Note: they never do and no amount of alcohol can change that).


Everything is going fine.

I'm not what one would call "popular" or "social" so I don't know many other people outside of my main circle of friends (I mean you, Quoc). But Quoc is and does! Even better he used to attend UAlbany, so he had a few friends on campus that were throwing a house party. We hopped our drunk asses in a taxi and we were there faster than you can say "Is it me, or is the world spinning?". We got into the party, shotgunned a beer and started playing some pong.

Somehow we're still keeping it together...

... but it's going all down hill from here.

Now, this might just be me, but about 10 shots and 2 beers does things to my being able to comprehend the gravity of certain situations. And by "things" I mean completely obliterate it. Apparently, as I was sitting on the steps trying not to puke (I didn't; puking is for homos and women... Johnathon) Quoc got tackled to the ground by a drunk stranger that he tried to hug. Now, I think that it's just a general rule of thumb not to try that ever, but whatever; Quoc has gotten away with crazier things. The bastard even chipped his front tooth! Things get better, when another group of strangers not only pull Quoc's attacker off of him, but chased him down and beat the shit out of him. Talk about vigilante justice.

Oh, what a fuckin' night. This kind of shit only happens in Albany.

Let's see how drunk we can get next weekend...

Today, as I was waiting for my Analysis of Applications class to begin I was listening to my iPod on shuffle when the song Can't Standing Losing You by The Police started playing. I couldn't have found a better song to describe my current situation. Given I got myself into this mess and given I probably deserve everything coming my way, the song still spoke to me. That and its a pretty damn good song albeit a bit repetitive. But what good song isn't?... Whatever. Repetitive was cool back in the 80s. Not that I would know because I was born at the dawn of the 90s. But if I were to make an educated guess I would say that that was true. It's funny; everything I'm writing here has nothing to do the mastabas of the Old Kingdom in Egypt. Oh well.

Can't Stand Losing You - The Police

Click the link and love your life. Faggot. Not that I have anything against gay people... just stop being a faggot, fagoot.

So I'm gonna right on my awesome blog instead!

I recently stumbled upon a website (not using the Stumbleupon app, go figure) called Meme Generator and it is just a whole shit ton of fun. Basically all you do is add text to the different meme templates they have on the website; all of which are a variation of the Advice Dog meme (i.e. Courage Wolf, Philosoraptor, etc.). You could even upload your own picture and add a caption to it. Go. Go now and create beautiful, meme-y goodness.

This is the only thing I've written since I "started writing" my paper. There's another, but the fucking site isn't working on my computer for some reason. Maybe it died. I'll post it as soon as the site comes back up or my computer stops being a little bitch. Whichever comes first.Yes, Advice Dog; I'll do just that.

You know when things get so crazy livin' life gets hard to do? Its times like those when I'd gladly hit the road and get up and go if I knew that someday it would bring me back to you.
That someday it would bring me back to you... Although that may be all I need, I don't see it happening anytime soon.

I screwed up (big time) and there doesn't seem like there's a thing in the world I can do to fix. Words cannot describe how sorry I am. I feel like the biggest asshole, douchebag, etc. in the world. Maybe you'll read this (which I doubt), and decide to find it somewhere in your heart to forgive screw-up like me. I'm not asking for your forgiveness now. Not tomorrow, either. But eventually so that we may once more be friends and boogey on down, on down.

In the meantime though, I'll hide you in my walls. Your body? It'll never be found. I'll wear your skin as a suit. Pretend to be you; your friends will like you more than they used to. Seriously.

I love shuffle on iTunes.

I could do this shit all day. So I'll stop... I have homework to do, anyway. Fucking Ordinary Differential Equations. It's not hard, at all. The bastard just gives homework everyday, which isn't hard. It just feels like something created to waste about an hour of my life EVERY-other-DAY. Not to mention that paper I have due on Thursday for that other faggot AND test on the same day. I'm a very busy man, y'know. There is homework to be done. There are streets to be fought on. There are calls of duty that need answering. There are gears to be... war'ed. You know; the usual shit a college student has to do.

Bonus points to the person who can name every song quoted. There are only four, it shouldn't be too hard. Not that anyone reads this to actually answer anything.

... now I have to deal with this gentleman on the right. He may not look like much, but trust me; looks can be deceiving.

Believe or not, I'm gonna fail this class. 50 points will be awarded to your house if you can name every meme depicted.