Everybody goes crazy because of the government’s new play
August 8th, 2008 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
Everyone has been acting strange and unreasonable. They’re all frustratingly dense, even the ones who were nice and easygoing before. I’m living in a different house with different, more frustrating people who shouldn’t be there to begin with. They do all the wrong things and annoy me all the time.
People are acting different because they’re obsessed with a play that’s been written and produced by the government. All anybody ever does anymore is go see this play. It happens every night.
Tommy Carcetti from The Wire acted in the play for one season, which lasted for one year, but actors are not permitted to stay in the cast past a single season. When I attend the play one night, I see that he has gone completely nuts. He is filled with rage at the actor who has taken his place and sits in the back row, mumbling his old lines as the new actor says them.
I come back a few nights later. Carcetti is up to the same. Halfway through the production, he pulls out a double-barreled shotgun and shoots his replacement in the head.
Meat
April 12th, 2008 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
I find out that I have a new class this afternoon. It lasts about six hours and is about video games, which is frustrating because I don’t even like video games.
There are many other problems with this class:
- It conflicts with my hours at the Writing Center. I will deal with this later.
-
It requires me to “stuff a dead squirrel into the compost so that it decomposes to the point at which it will make belching noises when poked.” I must also make some large slabs of meat decompose. While stressing out about this requirement, my female friend offers to take care of it for me. She finds hunks of meat as large as a person and starts punching them. Punching meat makes it rot faster.
We need signs to keep people from eating the meat. For signs, we need paper. I run to the Writing Center to get paper. Running is difficult and requires all of my concentration. When I arrive, the WC is a dock. Fishing is going on; a fisherman guard stops me from entering. I tell him I work at the WC and he starts to let me by. A fat, old, naked man in a passing boat speaks to me.
A neon sign sparks and falls apart
March 25th, 2008 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
I am in Jay’s Place, which looks like Chipotle. I stand in the back, observing the counter. A woman about my age with blonde hair and green clothes enters. She must wait because of a line or something; she does so for about half an hour.
When she gets a chance to talk to Brian, she asks, “Is Dirk Diggler here?”
Brian knows that Dirk Diggler is a character from Boogie Nights. “No; he left.”
The woman is disappointed that her practical joke did not pan out. She tries again, this time asking for Dirk’s real name (I don’t remember.)
Brian kind of knows what she’s trying to pull, but is either slightly duped or decides to indulge her. He asks for the character using his microphone. Satisfied, the woman leaves to join her annoying friends; they are going to laugh about this joke a lot.
I am sorry for running a program
February 27th, 2008 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
Mike Erlinger and I are doing some work in a lab. We are finished and I am about to leave; Mike asks me to try logging into one of the terminals. I type my password a few times but am denied access.
The room darkens, thunder claps, and wind blows through the room. Mike tells me that he has discovered that I am using BitTorrent on the school’s network.
“And all that sneaky shit? Only allowing encrypted traffic, using randomized nonstandard ports? Did you really believe that we wouldn’t find out?”
I apologize very much. Mike is very disappointed in me.
I will die in a car crash
February 13th, 2008 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
I am in the passenger seat of a pickup truck snaking along a tiny, winding desert highway. Robert Eckert, Jr. drives. He unexpectedly cuts across a bend, bouncing terrifyingly over the sand and cacti.
“What the fuck are you doing, Rej?”
“Oh. Sorry,” but he smiles and does it again. He’s bored of driving safely and I am very angry but too afraid for my life to do anything but yell at him. He continues to drive at highway speeds over uneven desert terrain.
He then takes a jump and launches the car to the left in a huge arc that ends in the ocean. We sink immediately. I realize that I will need to breathe in water to scold my driver, who is now more like DJ Roze. Given the necessity of screaming, and because I am partially aware that I can breathe perfectly well when I am lying around in my bed, this seems an acceptable tradeoff.
When we reach the surface, I attempt to inflict bodily harm on DJ Roze’s face for his carelessness.
(This night, DJ Roze also dreamed about driving recklessly.)
A song
January 17th, 2008 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
Melanie, Claire, and I are sitting on a beach that is bright but only room temperature. Songs are being written.
Melanie makes her ukelele sound like an electric guitar with the distortion turned all the way up. She plays blues progressions and it all grooves like crazy while I run back and forth on a wide, dark trail with lots of dangerous roots. There is hugging and congratulating because Melanie has written a very awesome tune.
Fuck you; I have jobs
November 10th, 2007 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
I wake up and am so confused I can barely see. I get up, walk around outside for a moment, and then come back in to go back to sleep.
I wake up again when four middle-aged women, one of whom is Mudd’s old Chair of Institutional Diversity, walk into my room. “Who is here?” they ask. “Have you taken the survey yet? Wake up!” I pretend to be asleep, but one climbs up to my bed and yells directly at me. “Have you taken the survey yet?”
“What the fuck are you doing in my room?”
“We are suspicious that most Mudders do not have real jobs, so we’re conducting a survey. Do you have a job?”
“Well, I grade and tutor for the Computability and Logic class and I am a Writing Center consultant.”
One of the women smirks and says, “you see, neither of those last two are real jobs.”
“Fuck you! Get the fuck out of my room! Fucking christ! Get the fuck out!” Before they have a chance to do so, I realize I am in Scott’s bed and wander out into the courtyard where people are filling out a written version of the survey, writing things like “taking pictures?”. I return to my own room, which is turned around so that there is an illusion of much more space. Also, my couch is repaired. As I go back to sleep, I envision the biting editorial I will publish attacking these people for their rudeness and wrongness.
Fucking puzzles
November 1st, 2007 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
Will Shortz gets tired of all the bullshit and retires from NYT. Ariana is in my room.
I look outside to see that the sky is black. It is 2:00 PM. Lilia demonstrates that I am seeing a tarp.
Another boring fragment
October 28th, 2007 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
I need to release some friends from jail. There is a long line for doing so. In order to prove that they are innocent, I must provide my IP address. I accomplish this by entering a dreamworld where it is easily accessible.
Her mistakes
October 13th, 2007 by Adrian Sampson; one comment
I watch an instructional video depicting an awkwardly dressed woman on a beach. She describes and demonstrates the sequence of moves that make up the Napoleon Dynamite dance. She has them all wrong.
Later, she attempts to describe how difficult it is to sleep near to an ex and not have sex with him or her.