Weekly Internet Vomit #2 - Of Babies and Men

The internet was a place created to connect a plethora of different peoples in a new and simple way. It was created to be a place to share knowledge, and to learn new skills, facts and information. And then society took it. And society killed it.

This week in internet vomit, I give you a website spawned by the demons of Lolcats and Failblog. One of my new favorites sites that sucks hours out of my life, but really increases nothing of my brain power. A site that I find myself asking "why?!" and then giggling into oblivion. This site, my friends, is manbabies.com.



It's these pictures, ladies and gentlemen that cause me to wake up in horror in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, only to nearly pass out from laughter seconds later.






For more manbabies visit manbabies.com

Don't forget, the internet is like any magical place; there are often inappropriate things just at the corners of the imagination.

If you have any vomitous suggestions leave them in the comments!

Weekly Internet Vomit #1 - Seduce Me With Your Hands

The internet was a place created to connect a plethora of different peoples in a new and simple way. It was created to be a place to share knowledge, and to learn new skills, facts and information. And then society took it. And society killed it.

This week in internet vomit, I give to you some very special Youtube Vomit. From the depths of hell these two music videos take weird, to weirder, and cute, to OH GOD MAKE IT STOP!

Enjoy.


(via @woodytondorf)

What could possible scare me the most about this video?
Is it the fact that the singer's name is Mini Daddy?
Is it that his "hot chicks" are 10 year old girls in outfits from the 90s?
Is it the extremely awkward hand motions he makes when dancing that are certainly not appropriate for a boy his age?
No. I think its the gangster Aeropostale shirt he flaunts. You've got cred, my brother.


If a tiny fat kid singing a rap song wasn't enough, I give you more. A music video that looks like it was made in the 80s with a very sad, and depressed crew, that was actually made in 2001. Ah... times are moving forward.



(via robertpopper.com)

Again, another video in which the hand motions make it. Rock on, Maxine Swaby. Rock on.

Vicarious

ca-thar-sis n. the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions

vi-car-i-ous adj. experienced in the imagination through the feelings or actions of another person

Since a young age I have always been infatuated with the concept of passion. Not just in the physical sense, but the ethereal being that drives us to commit incredible acts, that gets into our guts and makes our skin almost rip off of our bodies. The type that you can feel in your blood, that hides behind anger, lust, sadness, anything that is stronger than we are. Passion is what drives us; it means the difference between a mistake and a regret, something done, and something committed.

Passion is a beast from which we cannot hide. It waits deep within us, hoping to claw its way out, poring into our bloodstreams like a toxic chemical, a drug that is self-medicating, silently waiting to tear our insides to shreds, leaving us breathless and scared. It uses everything we have, every molecule of our being to meet its ends. It feels no pity, only strength.

This infatuation passion and I have shared is a tough battle of dominance. It is a sort of drug, always pumping in my blood, waiting for me to let it loose, wreak havoc on my insides. And I let it. In controlled doses I let passion, in whatever form it may take, completely envelop me until I feel nothing but a single emotion—anger, fear, lust, love, excitement. I feel one thing, concentrated and true, one of the purest things left into which I can tap. These moments are fleeting: small doses of a thick drug. They never last more than a few seconds, but when they are done, I feel empty. When passion leaves, I feel empty.

So like any junkie, I find other ways to experience this catharsis. I take it from others, silently stealing the emotions, feeling passion vicariously. I share in the anger of a scorned woman, the lust of a fictional character, the all-encompassing depression of a songwriter, the love of a cookie-cutter movie romance. I need these things, as though without them I cannot feel at all, as though my own emotions are not good enough. I need the extremes to feel like I’m feeling, to feel like I’m living.

Without passion life is just a series of events without a cause or motive. Emotions are just weak feelings, quickly becoming dormant and subdued. They have no strength, no colour. There is suddenly no motive behind any act; the man behind the curtain is revealed and he is sad and sick.

Passion is what makes us who we are. We are defined by how we react in these moments, fleeting and short, but shaping who we will become, how we view the world. And for some of us, these moments are not enough. These short, significant bursts are too short, too weak. We need this passion to make us feel. We define ourselves with passion, rather than letting passion define us. We seek it, instead of letting it seek us. We are junkies to a drug we create; we live vicariously because we feel as though it is the only way to live. Our emotions are not enough.

For us, life is best lived vicariously.

The Note

So I've given up on BEDA. I will now only post when I actually have something interesting to say. And boy do I have something interesting to say.

Okay, as a precursor let me state that I really don't believe in fate. I don't think that things will line up so that I have to do something, or meet someone, or that everything happens for a reasons. I just believe that life is kind of random, but ordered. But this story has a boatload to do with fate.

So, I got out of my class on Friday, and after went down to the lowest floor to check my mail (poor Highland Community College doesn't realize that I don't actually want to go to their school). Well I didn't get anything too exciting, so I started walking down the hall. Being the lazy ass woman I am, I tried to think through the school and find the fewest amount of stairs to get back to my dorm. Well I wound up way far away from my dorm, but near a slew of windows. Remembering what a gorgeous day it was outside, I forwent the laziness and walked outside back to my dorm. Once outside I was passed by a red motorcycle. Well, one of the kids I have a crush on has a motorcycle, so my heart leaped to my chest. Then I remembered that his wasn't red, it was yellow (don't judge me! I am not a stalker, I've seen him riding it before!). Then in kind of floaty thoughts I wondered if he had brought his back to campus after the winter. They were the type of thoughts that you think but don't fully flesh out, so my mind went back to the sun and the warm weather.
I continued walking back to my dorm, and saw the bicycle racks on the way. The thoughts of this kid's motorcycle came back, this time much more tangible. I turned immediately to my left and was met by a bright yellow motorcycle. I laughed at the irony, and kept walking. In the back of my head I thought how funny it would be if I left a note on the bike saying, "nice bike ;)" It's safe to say that I laughed this off almost immediately, and kept walking back to my dorm.
I get to the door, knock, but no one answers. So I decide to go get some food with a roommate who I usually meet after class on Friday. I get there, and she is no where to be found. I call her, but no one picks up.
Wondering if I do in fact have my key I sit down nearby and empty the contents of my purse. No key. I call every one of my roommates. No one picks up. I take out one my notebooks, and jokingly write out a couple of "nice bike ;)"s in different hand-writings, hoping that a roommate would call. Nothing happened. I snatched two of the best notes, and stand up to walk back to the dorm.
On the walk over, the tiny slips of paper getting hot in my hand, I tell myself that if no one opens the door of the dorm, I am supposed to go leave one of the notes on the bike. I knock furiously.
No one answers the door.
I laugh nervously, stow one of the notes, and have the other in my sweaty hand. I am such an idiot, I think, why am I doing this? The final mod of the day is ending soon, and if he has a class, he is sure to find me on his way out. I literally have 13 minutes to drop this note, and because it is a gorgeous Friday afternoon, the chances of getting out early are high. I could have anywhere from 3 to 13 minutes. And I'm screwed if I get caught.
I walk toward the bike, people all around me. If someone see's me, they are sure to think I'm nutty. I'm fifty feet away from the bike, and a girl walks right next to me. I stop, pretending to check my phone so that she can go ahead. I continue walking after about a minute, looking around to see if the coast is clear. Twenty feet away and a teacher walks behind me. God this is so stupid! You are the world's biggest idiot. Ten feet away, the note is in the tips of my fingers as I will the wind to just blow it away.
Three feet away, and I don't know what to do. I can't do this. I realize that the bike is directly outside of his department, and he will see me for sure if they get out of class early. I can't take it anymore.
A foot away, and I cop out. I drop the note on the ground near the bike. I convince myself that since fate had such a strong hand in this, it will certainly have enough to let him see the note on the ground. I practically run away from the bike.
I walk back to the buildings, and immediately see one of my roommates: after I have dropped the note.
If that is not fate for you, I don't know what is.

So did he get the note? I'll have no way of knowing.

Night Write

Talking to Rhys tonight I discovered something: I love 4 AM. I am so much more coherent and creative at four AM. Why can't my life revolve around 4 AM? I would write so much more, and so much better. There would be passion flowing from my pages and tears would flood the earth.
Okay, maybe that was a little over dramatic.
But seriously, I write better when the sun is finally deciding to come back up. I write well between the grey of dusk and the orange of dawn. The holy hours they should be called. When all writers (or at the very least, Rhys and I) create our most phenomenal works. 2AM and 6AM: the holiest, most passionate hours of the day.
Sit me down at four in the afternoon and the best I can write for you is a grocery list without a verb. I really suck at writing when then sun is up.
I'm like a writing vampire! But I don't sparkle. Or drink blood. Should I drink wood pulp?
I just wish there was a way for me to write well while people are awake, and not in China. Why must the King of Thailand be awake while I write? Why can't my roommate be!
But I need looming deadlines, and I need night to just permeate my writing. I need the thrill of chasing the sun, the solitude of the wee hours of the morn.
Balls.
I'm never going to sleep.