Jordan Snook Is a Real Boy

I'm So Bored With the Human Race

2006-12-19T23:08:00.000-08:00

Its been a long time since I've been on a binger of this magnitude. If keep this up for two more nights, I will have spent an entire week stoned/drunk/on painkillers. What can I say? I'm a sucker for little white capsules that promise redemption. And little green sticks and blades that numb the senses into a false sense of euphora. And foul-tasting liquids that put fuel in the gastank of confidence.

I am chemically-dependent. And it feels...bland.

I was hoping that once I came home from college I'd be able to mellow my mind out for awhile. Withdraw from society and straighten some of the shit that's been plaguing me recently out. Look inward and do some repairs. Some shine-ups. A little polishing. But alas, I come home to conflict and hospitalized friends. Its amazing that peace of mind can be acquired in very stressful times. But such acquisition often requires a prescription bottle.

So wrap around your guitar and strum it. Goodnight moon.

You're Gonna Hate Your Life In the Morning

2006-08-25T23:03:00.000-07:00

Its been a long time since I updated this. About four months to be exact. I'm not really sure what to say except, not much as changed except who I hang out with. Lately, its been a very select group of people, much to the dismay of myself and others. I remember writing a post on Xanga about how I could see some friendships fizzle out. I was right, but not entirely. The ones that I had in mind when I wrote that have grown oddly stronger, and the ones I thought would be strong have rusted away because of the intervening of females.

Bitches always ruin friendships, but only when shitty friends let them.

So basically, fuck bitches and fuck shitty friends.

And on one final note: Listen to Elliott Smith as much as you can.

If Not Now, When?

2006-04-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

I have a serious problem when it comes to yearning for attention. My most recent bad habit is seeking sympathy in the worst of all places: the internet. I track down the most easily-manipulated people on my buddy list and complain to them. Something about their replies of 'awwwwwwww' that just makes my ego swell.

Maybe its because Corin isn't very sympathetic and at heart I'm a little kid who needs to be coddled nonstop to keep his spirits high. If there's one thing I'm REALLY good at, its leading girls on and getting them to a level of false security where they will rave to me how great I am. Oh man is that satisfying. Whenever someone says remotely nice about me, I press until they respond with a paragraph about how I'm such a genuine guy, blah blah.

Fools.

I'm at a crossroads of sorts and I burned my map ages ago. I have no clue what I want. Do I want to remain with Corin or do I want to go on a testosterone-fueled 'world tour' of all the girls I can.

I am a bastard.

Lord I Was Born a Ramblin' Man

2006-03-18T21:13:00.000-08:00

Drinking alone is like a method of slow, calculated suicide. Especially considering its 12:01 as I am typing this sentence and this night had infinite potential but ultimately crumbled. Unfortunate, to say the least.

In times like these I have nothing but my thoughts and music, but because of technical difficulties, its just my thoughts. I really am an asshole. I used to loathe people who would take offense to my arrogant opinions but now I've realized that the false pedestal I hand-crafted for myself is nothing more than a mere facade of boosting my self-importance. I am the same as the people I criticize. I'm a fucked up teenager with a sweating problem who finds every day more and more difficult to wake up for. I'm barely surviving my senior year, and wishing that the time that everyone screams at you to cherish would end. I don't have the friends to make it that memorable. My really good friends graduated last year and my best friend is only around on holidays.

I'm a self-proclaimed weekend warrior who constantly feels out of place. I don't have the ability to concoct the memories that everyone looks back on so fondly. The best thing I've got going for me is Corin and she's two years younger. Absurdity is abound! I find myself disgusted daily by teenagers who degrade themselves to the stereotype, yet eagerly join them whenever the chance of innebritation rears its delicious head. Don't get me wrong; I love the people I hang out with. If I were given the chance to offer a sliver of advice to people my age it would be to make friends with kids in a band because:

a) You will meet hot chicks
b) You will be able to get easily drunk
c) You will meet drunk chicks who are easy

See how I combined the first two into the last one? I'm a sly devil, I tell you. But at the same time I'm fucking crazy. In-fucking-sane. I've had a video camera sitting in my room since Christmas that I can't find the motivation to use. I pray that As Illustrated By's tour works out so I can see this fucking coast for what it is; a wasteland or a sanctuary. I highly doubt that I will be able to view America as beautiful as Jack Kerouac, my latest in a laundry list of literary heros, did in the 50's. Reading On the Road has made me desperately wish it was that era where at the drop of a dime I could speed across the country and hit up the seediest jazz joints I could think of and drink myself into a stupor every night, but still end up with beautiful women in a tent somewhere. I hope the tour gives me some slight taste of this for I yearn for new experiences.

Being accepted into Drexel is a bit of a double-edged sword. It was the college of my choice but it only puts a 45 minute padding between me and Leesport, something I wish to greatly distance myself from at all costs.

Anyway, I've been rambling on for far too long and I'm getting drunker as I'm typing this.

In the words of SomethingAwful:

Good night and good fuck.

The Lust of My Life

2006-03-06T18:06:00.000-08:00

I don't want sound like an egotistical braggart, but I think I can safely say I'm pretty good with girls. I'm obviously doing something right since I've been dating Corin for a year, but overall, I get a fairly decent amount of female attention for being pale, pudgy, and semi-red-headed.

So why did I stick with Corin when at the time of us meeting, there were like three other girls in the picture? I mean, those other girls were super into me. I think after a year of speculation I've figured out why Corin was BY FAR my best choice.

Those other girls were too into me. Anything I said, I was glorious and articulate. Anything I did was viewed as genius, any bullshit (like this) that I wrote they ate up with a shit-covered spoon and did so with a toothy smile. I have an ego problem. I'm self-conscious as shit, but I'm an egotistical cock. Those girls would have only exacerbated those problems. I might have gotten laid alot quicker, but it would have only added to my exploding mass of an ego. They would have gone to my head.

That's why I love Corin. She keeps me down to earth. She's not afraid to shoot down my moronic writings or say something back when I get a little too uppity. The other ones probably would have just giggled awkwardly then started patting my crotch. I'm only 17 and hormonal but that sex would have been meaningless on my part. Those girls were attractive too, but they weren't genuine enough. And I know I'm not nearly as great as they had set me up to be. The only person who never made me feel like I was the Christ-equivalent of a teenage boyfriend was Elizabeth. In that situation, the roles were reversed. I was the worshipper and she was the one raised on a pedestal in my mind. Also not good.

So here's my point: Don't date someone who you think will save your life. They will let you down. And don't, by all means, date someone who thinks you will save them from some mediocrity. Especially when you know you're nothing special, because then your entire relationship is built off of false pretenses and that's no good. Go for the down-to-earth ones. The road may be a bit tougher and you might not get your sexual fill as fast, but it'll be worth it. Be a duo, not a master-servant relationship.

You'll be alot happier.

The Split Brain

2006-02-05T18:51:00.000-08:00

As I got older, the coffee got darker, the headaches got longer, and the drinks got harder. The mornings were brighter but only because my eyes were the organ-equivalent of a vampire. The rain became heavier and the glistening silver linings that rimmed the marshmallow clouds had started to rust from all the precipitation. There is no comfort in knowing that the sheen of life begins to dim with time, only more options of how to quell this particular thought process.

While the roads were becoming increasingly gnarled and ugly, the destinations served housed little consolation. The holidays became inconveniences, birthdays were nothing more than post-it notes preaching mortality, and don't even ask about vacations. The ocean water got saltier and always found its way to my eyes. Sand managed to finagle its way into the most chafing of positions in between my thighs, and by the end of the day the sun had graced my skin with an acidic, blistering kiss.

Dust had gathered on relics of the past including toys and video game systems long since abandoned. There's a browning Christmas tree in the backyard and cracked ornamental spheres in the garbage. In the attic lays a cardboard box, sloppily closed and duct-taped, which a hodgepodge of old books and assorted trinkets I had gathered over the years now called home.

Sometimes I get completely miserable and everything is bleak but its usually when my blood sugar is plummeting. It is at these horrible moments that I am a potential suicide victim (That is, if I believed in offing myself. I’ll leave that to the big man upstairs.) because at times such as that I am completely lost. I have wasted my time entirely and all my dreams are stupid and ill-conceived.

The soles of my shoes have worn thin from walking from my car to the plethora of appointments I've had lately. Once inside the dry-walled facilities I can't help but to stare at the generic paintings adorning the some-type-of-tan wallpaper. The color is reminiscent of a dog an old friend from elementary school had once until a car hit it one summer and his father buried it in the woods adjacent to their humble abode. In a few minutes a woman calls my name and pretty soon I'm talking to one of my revolving-door doctors. I say this because they are all the same. Leathery skin, musty breath, and low voices. They all blink too much behind their wire-frame bifocals and wear pants that bunch up at the crotch when they sit down displaying a perfect outline of their testicles. I swear all doctors are made in a facility somewhere in North Dakota. I don't know why there, it just seems like a fitting state. They begin with perfect models and instead of keeping them in tact they add as many generic flaws as possible. The pocked skin, over-tendency to blink, and so on and so forth. I'm yammering on about this and for that I'm sorry. The contents of this appointment have no real impact on the rest of this story; I'm just so fucking tired of these doctor archetypes. There are only two: short and bulbous in the gut region or tall and inexplicably skinny. The rest of the features described above, however, apply to all, regardless of body build. And of course the pants. Those fucking pants. Always hiked up just far enough to get a good look at their cock(s) and sock(s). And the socks. Always a mosaic of the most generic colors as if the only location available to doctors for sock-shopping is the Brown 'n' Black 'n' maybe some White Stronghold.
Once the appointment lets out (Two fucking hours later. At an optometrist. Fucking doctors) my freshly dilated pupils (which now resemble bowling balls but sans the fingerholes) are greeted by the sun. In this scenario, this is the equivalent to a lamb being slaughtered in my ears. I dig both my index fingers into my sockets as if skin rubbing ferociously into them will provide some semblance of relief. Much to my dismay but also to no surprise, this ends to no avail. Driving is going to be fun as hell in this condition.

As I maneuver my ’94 Volkswagen Jetta (which, on a side note, sounds like a blacksmith has set up shop beneath my hood) down the gnarled driveway off the office, I feel my thigh vibrate and the midi-sounding jingle of my cellular telephone. I hate this ringtone, but I hated the others more and this one kind of sounded like it was from The Legend of Zelda video game series.

I flip the phone open and I’m greeted with only black and white splotches. Damn dilation. After feeling for the button that will connect me to my audio-intruder I hold the plastic to my ear and in a voice that denotes just how annoyed I am with the day’s process thus far, I grunt:

“Hello.”

I’m not going to write out the details of the conversation because I’m pretty sure the government frowns upon such behavior. However, I will give my translation. It went along these lines (forgive the pessimism):

“Greetings, desperation-friend. It’s a Saturday afternoon and all of my other friends are either off with other people or have not yet reached an age where driving is legal. Consider me a sponge placed in your gas tank and come retrieve me. Even though I have no valid plans of how to pass the day, I request your immediate arrival and unfaltering focus on contriving some sort of a blueprint for our weekend activities.”

Sickening. But I agree and I am off.

Somewhere between miraculously navigating the twisty-straw roads that lead me to this unnamed companion’s house, my mind is consumed with thought and the hemispheres have drawn sides. They’ve also drawn swords:

Lefty: You fool. These ‘friends’ of yours as they label themselves (they are
placed in a quite different folder in your mental archives, I assure you) are all out to get you. They’ve been roping you in slowly with their friendly and non-argumentative conversing. You’ve been bedazzled by sympathy and pseudo-understanding. A cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes do not denote a bond. Nor does a heartless conversation over the pros and cons of subtitles.

Righty: Don’t listen to ‘im, old boy. You’re doing fine. These people are your
friends. They may not take a bullet for you, but they’ll go to your funeral.
And sometimes, that’s enough.

Lefty: No, dammit, its not. You waste countless gallons of gasoline on them.
You bum them smokes and don’t ask for anything in return except for an
ear for your hollow words to tumble into. And who could blame you for
your theatrics? Your god damned theatrics. All the time with how the very
structural frame of your hopes, dreams, fears, and morals is slowly
dissipating before your eyes. Only someone with a passing interest in the
film-industry could have such self-aggrandizing thoughts.

Righty: Oh, hush. Since no one else is out to make him feel better, he has to do
it for himself. Now, come on dear boy, you use me more anyway. You’re
an abstract thinker and that’s why I’m the best thing you’ve got. When
ever you pull gems of ideas (like this whole essay for instance) out of
your cranium, which side do you think it comes from? Its all me, daddy-
o. All those sub-par marks on trig tests and Bio II presentations. That’s
the left bastard’s fault. Now, for God’s sake, trust me on this. These
people mean you no harm, but they aren’t exactly pulling for you to
succeed. But for these ultimately-meaningless and transitory hellish
months you call ‘high school’ they’re the best you can do. Savor it and
put on some better music than this shit. Pop-punk is so 8th grade, I
thought you matured.

I’m pretty positive this is how aneurysms occur. Most researchers attempt to etch a line between two classes of people: abstract thinkers and concrete thinkers. Unfortunately, while I consider myself mostly in the ‘abstract’ bracket, there are still some generic thoughts rushing through my mind.

I am not special, nor am I going to do anything worthy of noting. Everything I manage to scribble out or type up late at night while listening to another shitty mixtape I made for a girl I used to be pathetically in love with, is all redundant. It has all been done before.

Maybe I should quit. Maybe I should hang up my whole persona of ‘tortured, perceptive artist’ and stop this whole sensitivity bullshit. I mean, my dad hates it, but then again, I’m not exactly shooting to be that type of man. However, that doesn’t take away from the fact that it probably is all for not. I’ve always considered myself enlightened, but maybe I’m actually the one who is blind because despite the veneer of utter cynicism, there’s still this secret optimist dwelling inside me grasping on to a flimsy scrap of hope. Hope that I can overcome the imprisoning shackles of this close-minded little town I call home. But then again, maybe I was right all along. Maybe these people have sold themselves short and if they would just stop listening to everyone else, they could finally embrace happiness.

People deprive themselves of being happy because they listen to idiotic maxims like ‘We all have to do things we don’t like.’ No, we don’t. I don’t have to go to school or graduate or go to college or fornicate or feed my cat but I do because that’s what I want to do. I don’t care if you’re an alcoholic street bum who passes out every night singing Miles Davis tunes. If you are happy with what you are, truly content with drowning in liquor and rambling on about jazz music, then you have succeeded.

So maybe I need to keep fighting the good fight. Maybe I should ignore the hype and fear people try to instill in me about my future. Maybe I shouldn’t let condescension get to me so much. If I get that acceptance letter, then they can all go to hell, right? Right on. So maybe I should just keep doing what I’m doing which, at this time, is seventeen miles over the speed limit with blurred vision. Maybe I should write a novel. Or a screenplay. Or a suicide note.

Or maybe I just need to fucking eat something.

The Gin War

2006-01-21T12:25:00.000-08:00

I wish I had you in my lungs
I'd blow you up and block the sun
To save everyone from this brilliant light we've won

<3

Stranger than Fiction

2005-11-15T14:03:00.000-08:00

I am writing a short story. By hand. Its just so much more personal that way. Anyway, once its finished and if I don't hate it (unlikely) I may post it on here.

The I-Pod Generation

2005-11-06T18:40:00.000-08:00

I hate that the generation I am unfortunately apart of (not by choice, that I can fully assure you of) has been burdened with this label. The fact that our entire youthful era will be remembed by a piece of shitty technology is a wee bit disheartening. Were people in the 50's known as the Television Generation? As far as I know, they most certainly were not.

Technology is not who I am. That's not some holier-than-thou statement either. I wouldn't be able to function without technology but it does not define me, and it shouldn't define any of you either. The fact that you breathe is what seperates you. Your breaths, heartbeats, and thoughts are what segregate us from this machinery, and yet magazine hipster editors are so quick to disregard everything that makes us human just to concoct a 'clever' nickname for our era. Screw that.

P.S. I-Pods are for e-fags and frat boys.

Our Revolutions Are a Joke

2005-10-27T16:09:00.000-07:00

Let's face it: in an era where everything is predetermined and reality television runs rampant, the hope for true, pure revolutionaries to arise in the midst of so much mediocrity is slimming down by the minute.

Maybe it's because our country is so exhausted by the piss-poor handling of our (inter)national affairs, that they are plain too tired to rebel or to stand for anything. Music used to be an outlet for artists to raise their crooked middle fingers high at what they disagreed with. Lennon reigned supreme. We need another Lennon, because otherwise the only person we have in the musical world fighting the powers and standing for something is Bono. BONO, of U-fucking-2. Well, fuck that.

We need someone hardcore. A soldier out there for what he stands for who doesn't fall into all this celebrity mold hooplah. Someone who wouldn't be afraid to shut the fanatics up when they went on talkshows. Someone who wouldn't sit idly by as Tom Cruise continue to let a stream of bullshit cascade from his twisted mouth. Am I the only one who thinks its time for someone to just tell that man off?

We, as in the dissenting, disillusioned folks of the US of A need a minion. A man who not only puts out amazing music or movies or some other outlet of media, but one that will not take it anymore. Someone needs to call these celebrities out on their ridiculous shopping sprees, their idiotic parenting methods (starting with what they name their kids), and their obnoxious religious agendas. I want a person who's only agenda is ridding the world of agendas. At least the world of Hollywood.

I won't get one though. I doubt anyone will rise from the realms of mediocrity and strike out against what they see wrong with the world. Maybe the religious fanatic celebrities are doing that in their own misguided ways, but honestly, I think the closest thing we've got is Trey Parker and Matt Stone. They are the punk rock kids who started a TV show and their wrath is a vicious one. I just wish they got invited on to a talk show when Tommy Cruise was on.

I promise you now, if I EVER somehow become famous, I will be that person. The one who flips off the haters, and gives all the psychotic self-praising celebrities a big dish of 'fuck you.' I'll be the pretentious asshole who feeds these idiots a cold, hard plate of reality.

You fake things for a living, nothing more. So your checks have more zeros on it than the rest of the world. That makes you nothing. You are an investment for the greedy superpowers in the studios. You are the tools of a money-hungry industry and you aren't rusting fast enough.

New Friend Request

2005-10-24T17:10:00.000-07:00

I'll be the first to admit that I greatly enjoy MySpace. But I can safely say that I don't base my whole life on it, like a majority of females. These people send out bulletins regularly advertising their latest pictures (which all look the same by the way) and begging, BEGGING for comments. This has always perplexed me, but now I think I've figured it out.

MySpace comments is to girls like jerking off is to guys. It feels good, boosts your morale, relaxes you, and gets you through those lonely Friday nights when everybody is having more fun than you and your mom won't but you those shoes that you want and you swear you'll get your grades up, but you didn't when you she bought you that iPod so you get grounded for three weeks for calling her a 'fascist bitch' and the only thing to keep you from promptly slitting your wrists is taking numerous pictures of yourself, often utilizing oversized sunglasses, various band t-shirts, and trick angles that cover up how truly unattractive you are.

But I digress. My point in constructing this site was not to complain (thats what xanga is for), but rather to observe and record these social observations. This is just one of them. I'm really not trying to be as mocking of these people as I may have come across, I just don't understand why females are so quick to take provocative photos of themselves and post them on the internet for the entire e-population of e-creeps to comment on. Perhaps for e-attention?

E-fin.

The Girls Behind the Melody

2005-10-23T12:35:00.000-07:00

Having befriended the lads involved in the band As Illustrated By, I've come to see things that people who don't have musician friends don't get to view. Mainly, the inspiration behind the lyrics. AIB may not have the strongest of scribes, but its still surreal to know the females who inspired these words.

I personally know and am friends with two of the girls that the songs were written about and that's odd. To have personally experienced (or in this case, a surrogate experience through Jon, the lyricist) an event that triggered music, or any creative outlet for that matter. I've gone to diners with these girls. Passed out at their houses. Drank myself into a coma in their hot tubs (true story).

These friendships with the girls behind the songs makes me wonder. These songs of love and affection are written for girls that the writer isn't with anymore. Does that mean that the greatest love songs out there were written for ultimately doomed relationships? Its a bit of a cynical thought, but kind of an interesting one to play out. For me, there is no greater example of a beautiful love song than the bittersweet Konstantine by Something Corporate, but I can't help but wonder if Andrew McMahon, the man who wrote it, even speaks to the girl who sparked those words. I know the song is ultimately about leaving her, but its just a curious thought.

Love songs are ultimately about fleeting romance, and that strips away some of the charm of their content.

Rickety Race

2005-10-23T00:45:00.000-07:00

So I'm too tired to pontificate via the interweb. I'm not going to front and say that I have some deep answers for you, because I don't. All I know is that I'm fatigued and going through the extremities most experience when one's body is filled with both caffeine and THC. Ups and downs. Hills and valleys. Skyscrapers and subways.

Okay, enough juxtapositions. All I know right now is that the new version of Alive With the Glory of Love is sickeningly lackluster, and I didn't miss working at the Cinema Center.

Fin.

Mmmm blog spot

2005-09-27T16:48:00.000-07:00

Still working out all the kinkz0rz on this sucker.