Relationships

As maddening as they are, relationships prove to be slightly more gratifying than its non-committal counterpart, friendship. Much like friendships, relationships imply that people actually enjoy each other. Much unlike friendships, relationships also imply that there's raunchy, finger-lickin' coitus involved. Note: THIS IS TRUE FOR ALL RELATIONSHIPS THAT MEAN ANYTHING (otherwise, what's the fucking point?). More ships that come close, but simply can't compare to relationships: kinship, ownership, Titanic, fellowships, etc.

If I had a chart, it'd show that most people are forced, coerced, goaded, lured or fooled into entering a relationship at some point of their (otherwise miserably lonesome) lives. This chart would also reflect the others―the tiny sliver of the population who are able to avoid such compromising situations and instead wander aimlessly through life bitching and griping about how alone they are. This sort of thinking is problematic. The truth is that we're all alone; people in relationships are merely deluded enough to marvel at the prospect of being alone in someone else's company, preferably engaging in raunchy, finger-lickin' coitus.

Frankly, every relationship's success is rooted firmly in the couple's ability to tolerate each other. The prospect of desecrating someone else's genitalia provides the initial appeal. Entertaining as it is, the amount of bodily fluids produced from such an unholy union may induce panic, if not, utter terror. It's exciting, it's new, it's sticky. After a considerable amount of time spent prodding and penetrating one another, you'd think people would be able to retire to their own empty bed and be satisfied, but alas, people are difficult. Once the pair is laying entangled in a sweaty-fucking-heap, there's nothing to do but talk (or maybe play with each other's hair, rub noses, etc). At this point, the individuals are inclined to disclose every aspect of their life up until that point. Having someone to listen validates their very existence, and “it really, really means something.” The individuals cease being individuals and merge into the omnipotent, all-knowing, all-thrusting couple―truly a mother-fucking entity in itself. In its modern usage, the term “couple” is derived from “a couple of people who really, really like each other” or from “a couple of assholes groping each other in the park” which, in context, makes enough sense. Not any couple of people have the potential to be a couple couple. Essentially, there are three types of relationships.

Relationships That Work
Basically, any two mediocre people can realize they want to fuck each other (and possibly share a bowl of cereal). Rarely enough, this leads to greater, slightly more annoying things. When two people find joy in each other's petty meanderings (and then decide to have sex), this usually comprises a substantial relationship. In a healthy relationship, tolerance is intimacy is success. People involved in relationship see each other as a mere extension of themselves―gross. Who the fuck needs a walking/talking/shitting appendage? No one, but everybody wants one. One may be apathetic when encountering a relationship that works (if they're not involved). “Yes, he was looking at you. Yes, you should go talk to him. Really? He's a photographer? Oh, really? You both play guitar and enjoy doing shitty Feist covers? Shit, he's also into existentialism and bad films made in 1989? Oh, my. He told you that? Yes, you two do look good together. It's great that you two found each other. It's great, it's really fucking great.” It should be noted that even when a relationship works, it typically has a life-span of 3 months – 27 years before things get mind numbingly dull. Serves them right.

Relationships that Don't Work
If you like your friend, your relationship won't work. If your first romantic encounter was inspired by drunkenness, pity or sheer foolishness your relationship probably won't work. If the best thing you can say about your significant other is “they're...nice” then your relationship won't work. If all your thoughts are consumed by that person, your relationship won't work. If you're nice your relationship won't work. If you're mean your relationship won't work. If you want them to change themselves, your relationship won't work. If you're willing to change yourself, your relationship won't work. If you don't want to be alone your relationship won't work. If you love the other person enough to do anything to keep them, your relationship won't work. If you understand each other your relationship won't work. If you really, really think you're meant to be together your relationship simply won't work. I'm sorry.

Relationships that Should Work, but Simply Won't (& it's not fair)
See above.

Santa Cruz Metro (Route #19)

I'm (absolutely) sure I would've made it to class today if the #19 hadn't fucked me over. Maybe it's my crippling inability to read a bus schedule properly (thank you, LAUSD), maybe it's simply my fate to be a slightly-less-than-mediocre student. Either way, this is the 4th or 5th time the #19 has made a fool of me. Well played, bitch, well played.

I left before I could eat a decent breakfast, which normally wouldn't mean very much, but this morning there happened to be sourdough bread in the cabinet. Sourdough bread's fucking amazing and extremely tempting (as amazing things tend to be). I ended up arriving at the bus stop 9 minutes early (or 47 minutes late). I should've stuck to the route #20 bus; it's all I know. The fact that it only appears once an hour at arbitrary places & times makes it an adventure. The scenery's marvelous even if it is a horrendously long route. A small, Jewish girl once told me she refrained from riding or even looking at the #20 because it made her nauseous. In the tradition of horribly inconvenient bus routes, the route #20 bus also makes a habit of leaving you/having a confusing doppelganger that refuses to take you downtown/being really, really ridiculously full. Pain in the ass, yes, but it's the ONLY way to get to the west side (where all the cool kids/drug dealers/over-privileged neo-yuppies dwell).

After a minute or so, a #7 appeared and threatened to pull over. I tried averting my eyes, knowing that bus would abandon me in a grassy field, but to no avail. After several minutes or so, a #3 appeared and that should've been my first inclination that I wasn't catching a bus anytime soon. The way the Bay & Columbia bus stop is positioned, it looks as if you're staring into a residence if you look straight forward. There was a man looking back at me. I think it was a challenge? I never know what to do with my hands at bus stops, either, though that's somewhat irrelevant. I'm sure if I would've stayed there another 30 minutes or so, another #7 or #10 & 1/2 or something would've eventually appeared, but I know when to admit defeat. I crossed the street, just in time to narrowly miss being run over by a #19 speeding in the opposite direction.

Things worked out though. I realized that there was a relatively important assignment due in class today--an assignment I hadn't done or heard of until now, of course. Missing class gave me enough time to hastily piece together a coherent (?) essay and draw a silly lil' map to accompany it. I have no idea why so many assignments in that class (Intro. to Teaching) require a silly lil' [insert asinine illustration], but my peers sure do seem to love their construction paper.

Pickles

There's not much to pickles; they soak in brine and they cure hangovers - enough said. But, not really. They're important enough to be the namesake of beloved Rugrats character, Tommy Pickles, so that's got to mean something? It doesn't even matter that no 6-12 year old this day and age knows who the fuck Tommy Pickles is, it's kind of a big deal. It's a bit degrading to consider a pickle a condiment, though. What good are two measly slabs wedged between buns, mustard, onions and all-that-is-unholy-and-morbidly-obese?

I don't approve.

Fuck that.

No one ever shafts a cucumber; why should you lose respect for something just because it's been floating in a jar of suspiciously green fluid for a month? And relish? It's a fucking mockery. Why butcher a perfectly good pickle to the point where it takes on the exact consistency/texture/odor of alien semen? To smear it on a hot dog? Unforgivable. Take it whole or not at all. I appreciate pickles, so should you.