Yay! and Nay

It is official: I am going to Spring Break. The rents, namely mother, let me know a couple nights ago at dinner. As I celebrated loudly, causing the rest of the restaurant to turn their heads in my direction, visions of various alcoholic beverages, quite illegal to a man of 18 and quite tantalizing, danced in my head. I saw half gallons of Barbarosa, fifths of Bacardi, cases of Budweiser (it's cheap, there's always a special on it). Let's just say that from next Saturday until the Saturday after that, do not text or call me unless you want to read or hear some of the most bullshit, nonsensical language you have ever encountered.

So that obstacle is out of the way. I am going to Spring Break. And after that, I guess high school's pretty much over. Sure, a few parties here and there, prom (sucks/overrated), and that'll be that. I guess it's been a decent run.

I went to a Bobcats game tonight. I want so hard to get into it, but...no. Maybe if it weren't so fucking family-oriented. If you want to see some really corny shit, go to a Bobcats game. If you want to eagerly gather around that attractive, yet strange blonde woman who walks around with a microphone and her bitch cameraman in tow, hit one up. If you want to see some immensely talented, immensely bored basketball players, buy a ticket. If you want to have fun, stay home and do a couple lines with your friends.

So yeah, I went to a Bobcats game tonight. It sucked. The seats were great (props B.P.). The game wasn't.

I am going to hit the hay now. I want to catch up on some sleep this week. I have a feeling I'm going to get pretty tired next week.

Progress in SB'08

Tonight I checked my e-mail and to my delight, pops has elicited a response to my Spring Break '08 e-mail. It sounds rather promising, but still comes back to those fucking grades. The man mentions he hasn't been "bowled over" with my recent study habits, but can appreciate the minimal "concern you've shown about your grades." I guess that's a start.

I shot him a response, and finished it off with a couple lines I was really proud of: "...And I truly feel like the reason you did it is because you are afraid to let me go. So that is the real reason why you won't let me go on a one-week journey to the beach. I've got news for you: I'm about to embark on a four-year journey to the beach. You have to let me go some time." Yeah, I know. Sweet.

Tomorrow we are maxing again in weightlifting, and I swear to god, if I don't improve on my max I will drop a deuce in the middle of the weightroom floor. I didn't even mention what that gigglypuff of a man, Coach Hill, told me yesterday. I had missed a couple weightlifting classes, and one has to turn in essays on random articles in order to make up for that, or else one gets deducted a letter grade for each class missed. I did that--but I hand-wrote the articles. "Son, they had to be typed. You knew that since the beginning of the year, c'mon now." Fuck him.

Tomorrow I am going to put up ridiculous amounts of weight and maybe he will be like "Wow Chad, you are a beast. You know what? Forget it, you get an A PLUS! Bye!"

Spring Break

Sometime this morning, approximately 1 a.m., I was lying in my bed, awake, thinking about future events in my life that are not too far away. The one looming nearest on the horizon is Spring Break. The gang's all heading down to Ocean Isle for the week. Should be a doozy. I plan on not being sober for more than five minutes. But I guess that is expected with what is sure to be the Last Hurrah of high school.

My parents said I couldn't go if I got any grade below a B. I knew that this was not going to happen in AP European History. So I ended up pulling 7 A's and a C in History, very respectable if you ask me. And these grades are pretty much pointless: I got accepted into the Honors-Scholars program at the Dub yesterday.

But the rents still aren't backing down with this ultimatum of gayness. So I sent them a little e-mail. In the past, I have used my cunning to force them to pity me. They caught on to this about five or six years ago. This e-mail contained no begs for mercy. Rather, it stated my plan. I will be going to Spring Break, regardless of whether my parents will let me or not. They can strip me of my car keys, my money, my dignity. I refuse to let this milestone in my high school career pass me by.

I have not yet received a reply by either party to said e-mail, nor has either mentioned it to me face-to-face. I guess they're in shock. That's gotta be a good thing.

Oh, by the way, I went to the J today. Some fat fuck in there was bragging that he had run ten laps on the miniscule indoor track before pulling up with "severe muscle spasms, evidence of my football days." No, man. You're just a bitch.

The Darjeeling Limited is good.

I watched The Darjeeling Limited for the second time tonight. I can't remember if I ever made mention of the first time I viewed the film. The events taking place during its viewing were unspectacular, so I probably disregarded it altogether. However, upon the second viewing, I must call attention to the film. It's really excellent. Quick synopsis: Three brothers (Owen Wilson, Jason Schwartzman, Adrien Brody (who I must say has gotten quite ripped and doesn't hesitate to show off that rock-hard body in this movie, ladiezzz!)) are brought back together for the first time in a year on a sort of spiritual journey through India. Their journey begins by train, The Darjeeling Limited train, but they are ultimately kicked off. I hesitate to say any more: it's one of those movies where even giving away small details of the plot could ruin the movie, so I'll keep my mouth shut. But if you haven't seen it, it's worth it. Guys, if you're hesitant: sex scene with Natalie Portman, first five minutes.

A bonus of the film: strangely good Indian-themed music, as well as a little ditty by Peter Sarstedt entitled "Where Do You Go My Lovely." I hit up iTunes for a full preview of the soundtrack before swinging over to LimeWire to do the real damage.

It is entirely too late to be blogging, so I will cut this short.

Wikipedia

Wikipedia is probably one of the greatest inventions of the 21st century. And yet, it is banned at school, a phenomenon I cannot grasp. Teachers don't want us to use it when completing research papers. They scoff if any work we hand in is in some way related to a Wikipedia page. I don't understand it.

Perhaps Michael Scott (Steve Carrel) put it best when he explained, "Anybody can write something, so you know you're getting the best. possible. information." This is true, anyone can indeed contribute to the plethora of information available on Wiki. However, it's not like it will stay there if what you said was total bullshit. Even if it wasn't, you have to cite it all. So everything on the site is real.

Today I had an oral presentation for AP European History. I suck dick at the subject, and knew that Wikipedia would come through in the clutch when it came to my assigned man of the past: Carl Jung. But on my last oral report, I had made a rookie mistake, simply printing off the Wikipedia page of my person and turning that in upon completion of the presentation. This time, I was a bit smarter. I copied every scrap of info on Jung into a Notepad document, then printed it out in plaintext. Fifty bucks says my teacher won't ever guess it's from Wiki. In fact, he'll probably concede to the fact that it's excellent info.

I can't wait to see what happens.

Also had an exam today. Discrete math. Class is somewhat of a joke, as far as math classes are concerned. Teacher is even more of a joke, as far as teachers are concerned. But he's a funny guy. Occasionally he'll let slip a few choice words, something that always makes my comrades and me chuckle. Sometimes, he doesn't even have to cuss; he just says some dumb stuff. Anyway, I am pretty sure I did well on the exam.

My parents told me if I have anything below a B then I can't go to Spring Break. I have a D in Euro Hist right now. Guess I'm running away.

The Office

I have watched every episode from seasons 1, 2, and 3 of The Office at least twenty times each. I have memorized nearly every word, and the tone in which said words are spoken in. I have memorized body language. I have memorized credits. Yes, it is quite safe to say that I am obsessed with The Office.

When Season 4 episodes started airing, I certainly was not disappointed. They were hilarious. But as we all know, the writer's strike put a damper on this. Still, there were four extremely solid episodes out there that were ripe for viewing over and over. Yet iTunes refuses to pick them up! I had heard awhile back that a riff had developed between Apple and NBC over a pricing issue on their TV shows. I don't think Apple is offering any NBC shows for purchase anymore. I wouildn't know; all I watch is The Office. And you def can't get it.

I, as I am sure numerous outraged Office fans are contemplating, am considering writing a letter to Apple to notify them of their huge mistake, and to patch things up with ol' NBC ASAP for our sake.

That being said, I am about to go watch "Traveling Salesman" (Season 3, Episode 12) for the 32nd time...excuse me.

virginia is extremely sexy

the end.

weekend...synopsis? gayness?

This weekend, like so many others before it and so many others that I shall encounter in the future, has gone by in the blink of an eye. It seems like just yesterday that I bid adieu to the East Mecklenburg staff and embarked on my dual-day journey of what I hoped to be a mad alcohol-ridden frenzy. But alas, it has been two days since this happened. And as it played out, no alcohol was involved in this weekend's events. Yet I had a good time nonetheless.

Perhaps the highlight of the weekend was the winning of the mens basketball state title by East. That was big. And quite fun, I might add, because the majority of the people around me were either drunk or on some drug that transformed them into loads of fun. I took the liberty of joining this crowd in their craziness, and tempted fate with many a security guard. Ultimately, it was DP who ended up on the wrong end, however. It was presumed after the cops grabbed him and dragged him out of Reynolds Coliseum that he had been arrested. However, I hit him up on his cell approximately ten minutes out of this and he was just chillin outside. Crisis averted.

But yes, the moral of the story is that we did win the game, and that was sweet. Some people painted the rock afterward, and I went along to watch the ordeal. Then I hung with my girl for a bit, took her home, and watched tv with pops until 4:30 in the morning. All in all, a very solid night. I have a feeling tomorrow morning won't be so solid. But sometimes Monday mornings surprise me.

A slow night

Nothing like a little Owen to get you nice and depressed. I know that's why I listen to him. Preston and I actually had a discussion about this earlier, how we sometimes (much more often than is probably healthy) desire to become depressed by a particular song or artist, as is the case at the moment. Still, I have to to respect the music; lyrics are great, creative guitar riffs (I'm no expert on the latter by any means; sound good to me though), etc.

Tomorrow is the day of the "Big Game" between those ol' Eagles and Apex. A bit odd that Apex has to travel all of ten minutes to get to the game. Oh well, I think we'll be able to handle them despite this. But if not, hey, it is high school basketball, it doesn't mean all that much. College, on the other hand, well, that's worth skipping school for (and the pep rally for the high school game as well), as I did today. Yep, but it was only an ACC Tourney game, an event that I really wish the Heels didn't even partake in. Oh well, twas a good excuse to down the aptly-named "BFW" (Burger, Fries, Wings) at Boardwalk Billy's.

Jeff Reed is the dankness

I think it's safe to say that I have a bit of a man-crush on Jeff Reed. The man came to newspaper today to subject himself to an interview conducted by The Eagle staff. It went rather well. I learned that Jeff has a 20-year-old girlfriend (he's nearly 29), and that he benches 370 pounds. The dude is a fucking beast.

After the interview, I wanted to do a bit more research of my own. I did a little Googling, which is truly your only option if you want to investigate something properly. Then I did a little Google Image Search for shits and giggles, and some of the pics were damn insane. The guy had said in the interview that he didn't drink until he was out of college, but judging from the pics, I don't believe it. The very first pic is one of him, shirtless and with his pants down just low enough to show the top of his dong (the guy appears to be well-hung, I'm not going to lie), in front of a full-length mirror, taking a picture on his phone. Funny thing is, he was wearing the same thing he wore in the interview today: Dog tags, diamond earrings, had his head shaved. Twas quite strange and eery. Sufficed to say, J.R. is who I hope to become. Total underdog mentality, total perfectionist. Well, the latter definitely isn't me. But I'm going to get better.

Gaga

In between creating a cheat sheet for tomorrow AP European History test, which will quite possibly be the sole determinant in whether I go to Spring Break or not, I am finding a bit of time to compose this little ditty. It seems only right, since I skipped out on yesterday.

I have found that I am missing swim practice a little bit. Not for the swimming itself. Oh no, god not that. In fact, I have become very content with my newfound laziness. No, the thing I really miss about swim practice is all the characters I encountered in the locker room at the Mecklenburg County Aquatic Center. I miss Dean-0. Well, this is a self-proclaimed name for the man. But he just looked like a Dean-0. This fella came up to me one day and just started staring at me as I was getting dressed. I was a bit scared at first, until I took a closer look at the chap. Probably about 50 years old, and with a heavy case of some sort of something; could have been Down's, I'm not sure. Something wasn't quite right about him, and I instantly went from being scared to sympathetic, and (yes, I know it's terrible) a bit amused. I finished dressing, and to my surprise, the man grabbed my arm and stared into my eyes. At that moment, I noticed another man, seemingly of normal brain capacity, watching him from the corner. "Come on, Bill, it's time to go," called the man (I ignored the tag of "Bill"; he'll always be Dean-0 to me). Dean-0 released my arm and followed his suitor out the door. I watched the pair go.

And there were a bunch of characters like dear sweet Dean-0 that I would meet every single day. It's just the way it was at that joint. If I ever go back to swimming, the first thing I'll do is head to the locker room to seek out some of my long-lost misfit buddies of yesteryear.

Must...sleep...

11:22 p.m. on a school night, yet these eyes have not yet felt any weight...could be a bad sign for the morning. I guess after my ass laid in bed until noon on each morning of this weekend, it's pretty well-rested and not in the mood for any more shut-eye just yet. I should probably hit the lights and see if i can coax it. But how do you go about coaxing yourself to go to sleep? Probably, you end up worse than before.

Me:"Hey man, you really need to sleep. You have to get up real early tomorrow."
Body:"Fuck, like I'm going to listen you you. You ain't my mom."

Maybe I'll just go raid the medicine cabinets and try to cook up some sort of cocktail that will all but kill me as I lay me down. It's possible I still have some liquid morphine left from the jaw surgery; could be quite crucial. But do I really want to waste it on a simple Sunday night's sleep? Nay, now that I consider the thought; it should be saved for an alcohol-filled night in which its addition to the beers and shots in my belly will put me right out for hours on end, or at least have me feeling hella good for quite some time, embarrassing myself like no other and not giving a flying fuck. Chances are, though, I've either already used up my medicinal reserves, or my mom cast them out for fear that I would indeed use them for the wrong purposes, which in this case she would be quite right about.

So assuming I will be settling for Benadryl, just how many should I pop? I want to be out cold in the next ten minutes. I suppose five ought to do the trick. Maybe mixed with a warm glass of skim, two percent if she's available. Well fuck, breast if that's available, but I am pretty sure there is no willing donor within this house at the moment. Maybe I ought to give my girl ____ a call....

All jokes aside, I really need to be heading to sleep. So goodnight to all of you cats out there, hopefully I'll get around to posting something else before the week is out. But you know how I get. I'm extremely lazy most of the time, and this trait has only increased since I began my hiatus from swimming. I'll make it a priority to fill you in on all of the wonderful things I encounter at the ol East Meck tomorrow.

The night of the Heels

FUCK YES. My boys have done it. The refs tried to take them out of the game, seldom calling any fouls down low. Tyler Hansbrough was taking some sort of beating that undoubtedly resembled something that goes on in that maximum-security prison that I pass every summer in South Carolina on my way to the beach. After the game, Roy Williams nearly flipped out in his press conference when asked about the illegality of what went down in the post. But alas, through all of this, we won. On Senior Night, in Cameron Indoor Stadium. How sweet it is.

My dad had been sipping brews all night. When I came home to join him for the game, there was an empty box of 12 sitting out. He was hammered. The night was littered with profanity, excessive even for a man who had taught me the word "Fuck" when I was at the tender age of five. Luckily, I had forewarned Virginia, who was with me, that Pops was going to start mouthing off a bit. And he certainly did not disappoint.

I really wish I could have had a few brews of my own, but as I had expected, the beers I purchased the night previous had been consumed by an unidentified culprit; can't trust the fellas to guard your alcohol. Who can blame em, when the stuff's close by it's hard to lay down the law and proclaim them to belong to someone else. But alas, for what was certainly not the first and most definitely will not be the last time, I was cheated out of money and booze. And even after a sweet Tar Heel victory, that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Ah, but it's simply the semen of high school; should be over soon.

Long Night, Big Day

Despite having consumed approximately only three beers last night, the entire evening seems a blur. I think I was more under the influence of fatigue rather than alcohol. Here it is 11:40, and I'm just now waking up and praising God's glory.

I was reading through last night's posts a bit, and refreshed my memory in reference to the oh-so-saucy text messages I presumably sent out last night. No responses to them this morning though, surprisingly. I guess the recipients are still in too much shock to respond, or maybe they just put two and two together: twas a Friday night, and Fridays obviously mean drinking. But let me reiterate, I didn't have much; just didn't have much sleep either. Thank god I got a good sleep last night.

Today is judgment day for my beloved Heels. Yes, we have to contend with Duke tonight. I'm going to have butterflies flying in my stomach all day, and they will not cease until the conclusion of the game. It's that big of a deal. You'd think my love for Carolina basketball would have died down a bit after receiving my letter of rejection from Stephen Farmer, Assistant Provost Director of Admissions at The University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill. Yet it seems as if it has only gotten stronger, for reasons unknown. Maybe I'll be there someday.

Friday night

I am sitting in my room on a Friday night, completely alone and quite tired. The night started off promising: I began drinking rather early, and stayed fairly buzzed throughout a game of poker in which I somehow broke even. After that, however, the night started to die down as quickly as it had begun. It's my understanding that a few of the fellas went to a bar down the road notorious for not checking IDs (I have experienced this first-hand, and this is indeed true); I guess I wasn't really invited. However, I'm not sweating it. I really need some sleep.

I have a feeling that I sent a few drunken text messages tonight, some good, some bad, all (sadly) completely honest. Guess I will feel the effects of that in the morning when my phone is bombarded with texts from confused young women. So I have that to look forward to. I am going to make it a goal to get up relatively early and get my ass over to the gym (J). I went over there today, but the majority of my time was consumed with basketball, and not much else. If I am going to get the ever-growing beer gut down by the rapidly approaching April 7th date of Spring Break, I'm going to have to put my nose to the grindstone.

Today's J Trip

Today's trip to the J was a bit different from any that I have had before, but as I am sure you have gathered, none is. Started off in the gym shooting hoops with my boy Will, and we were soon joined by Killa Cam and Steinberg. Our quartet was soon booted from the indoor court because there was an old men's league playing, so we headed outdoors.

Once outside, we found a large contingent of African-American fellows, most appearing to be about our age, and some a bit younger. I recognized one of the kids, a certain Keyshawn, from my days as a McClintock Scot. The chap had gotten considerably taller, and I could tell right away that he would soon school us in a sport in which the color of his skin alone would assure certain dominance (stereotypically).

My prediction was correct. We were beaten rather badly by the man and his crew, although my boy Will held his own. Throughout the game, I was "checking" a five-foot-three scrawny fuck who did nothing but talk shit the entire game. Unfortunately, my game was shit, so his words were surprisingly relevant. Finally, toward the end of the game, I got the ball beyond the arc. "Don't check my man, he ain't gonna make it," the little shit remarked. I quickly made eye contact with him, then fired a shot through the air that swished satisfactorily through a second later. Showed that bitch.

After basketball, the fellas were pretty beat so we parted ways: I headed to the weight room, and they sauntered off toward the hot tub. I never found out if our dear Prussian (yes, I'm certain he is Prussian) was in the sauna. I guess I'll never know.

Something to be said for...

As corny, cliche, what have you, it is to say that warmer temperatures put one in a better mood, I feel as though this is certainly the case for me currently. This warm weather simply makes me want to strip off the jeans I have worn for two weeks straight, the boxers that five hours before were soaked through completely with sweat as a result of weightlifting, and the shirt that, adorned with sweat stains, I gracefully showed off to Virginia Jones, and run around the neighborhood completely naked. Were it socially accepted by, say 10 percent of the resident, I guarantee you I would do it without a second's thought. However, I think it's safe to say that Medearis Drive is one of the most conservative and close-minded neighborhoods in all of Charlotte-Mecklenburg, save for a few in the Myers Park and Dilworth areas.

As it stands, I will be stripping these items off, but in an entirely different venue, one known as the JCC (or Jewish Community Center, I don't believe I have yet clarified that. You probably knew anyway. Didn't you? Be honest, bitch.). I plan on hitting the weights rather heavily (yes I had weightlifting today, I am a workout fiend as of late) and then polishing it all off with some whirlpool, steam, and sauna. Hopefully that ornery old (P)Russian won't still be in there, sniffing at his scroat. I'll be sure to let you know.

Full...and yet...something to be desired

I just finished a rather rigorous workout at the JCC, and enjoyed a nice steaming and whirlpool with my comrades. However, the sauna was not to be tonight. Why? Well, a small, presumably Russian (could have been Prussian (is Prussia still a nation)) man within the wooden confines of the 200 plus degrees fahrenheit room told us that we could not enter. His reason? We were clothed. To quote the man. "No, no you not come in here. You wear the clothes, you must no clothes. You breathe this, you see." I think the message the chap was trying to convey was that everything within the room is vaporized and inhaled, and he didn't want to inhale the scent of our pants, possibly implying that we were dirty. But this got me thinking. Would he rather be taking a big whiff of my ballsack and butthole instead? Apparently, affirmative on this notion: he was residing in a position in which his own were undoubtedly being inhaled with every breath.

It was a strange situation indeed, but not the first, nor the last I will encounter at the J. Afterward, I decided to join Steinberg at one of the local grubberies, Township Grille. Their wings are cheap and delicious, as they should be. Steiny and I had us a feast, polishing approximately thirty wings and a couple hefty orders of fries between us. At the conclusion of this glorious meal, my comrade had consumed his fill, and remarked that he was thoroughly satisfied: "It's settlin nicely." I, however, felt as though I could still use a bit more. "I came here to get full, yet my tank's approximately only a quarter full," I remarked. I tried munching on the celery, but Steinberg informed me that it was "Pretty much all water, just gonna make you more hungry." So I abandoned the crunchy, green stalks. We made our way to my car to smoke a stoge, and all I could think about was how I needed more food. I pondered this throughout my smoke, and on the ride home, nearly rear-ending a bright red Volkswagen Golf, then passing it and looking inside at the beautiful blonde with large, supple breasts and wishing I could rear-end her. I got home and gave the cabinets their usual rummaging, but couldn't find anything that I fancied. So hear I sit, rather hungry, quite horny, and, now that I think about it, extremely tired. So I shall hit the hay.

Update 10:06 p.m.
Mark horniness off the list. Good night.

Now or never...

It all comes down to this. This is my third and final attempt to diligently enter various happenings into this little corner of the internet known as a "blog." My two previous attempts have failed miserably, forcing me to delete each of my last two blogs, as well as all entries within. Therefore, I offer this to you, my last effort, possibly last-ditch effort, at divulging with the world my deepest, darkest secrets.

In all seriousness, most of what I say on this page will inevitably be total bullshit. Alas, don't place too much salt in the cup, beaker, mug, etc. as you read however, for Chad Thomas does occasionally tell the truth. It will usually be denoted with an ALL CAPS SENTENCE and a note at the end of the page that says "Yes, there is a piece of truth within this. Your task? Find it!"

Let me give you a quick update on what's happening currently in my wacky (whacky?) world. Swimming's Done-zo for now. I am just so sick and tired of the sport. I'm trying to return to my roots, heading to the J nearly everyday with my boys and putting in a little time in the lanes. That's what I really like, just some relaxed, back-and-forth stuff, not 50x200's on 2:10 (Swimming Techno-Babble, if you don't know betta ax sumbodiezz). Mixed in with that are equal parts sauna, hot tub, and steam room, all of which I fancy. The only really sad part about all of this swimming (or lack thereof) business is that my coach is yet to be informed that his dear sweet, promising young lad of 14 who somehow grew up to 18 and was now not nearly as promising, nor as slender....is yet to be informed of my departure from the sport entirely.

So with swimming out the window, I now have time to focus on my true loves, one of which is biking. I submitted my mountain bike, complete with rust deposits all-around, to the bike shop yesterday for a complete repair. The the clerk's eyes widened noticeably as I brought in what was once a beautiful piece of machinery but now looked like God had taken a large, gritty shit upon in the form of an oxidation process known as "rusting." He regained his bearings, then muttered "$60." I agreed to the offer; what choice did I have? Trust me, with the shape this thing was in, it was a bargain.

I'd also like to add that there is currently another bike in my life, but that is an entirely different story, one that needs to be examined much more closely on a later date.

Additionally, The Site Of Chad is back up (www.siteofchad.com). Yes, the domain name is different, but I think simpler is better anyway.

For now, I bid you adieu as I saunter on out the door. More shall follow soon....I think.