Getting Ready for Reality Show Stardom

As you loyal readers already know, Elle and recently took a trip to Hawaii. What you don't know is that I used that trip to train for Sylar's Bachelor, a new reality show that just premiered at the Burnt Toast Diner blog. You see, as my sweetie and I were touring active volcanoes and scuba diving, I used those as an opportunity to prepare for challenges. I'm going to play to win.

I wonder if I could be kicked off the show if Elle and I continue to date while Sylar's Bachelor is running, like what happened to that guy and girl on Tila Tequila...

What? Elle and I watched it at the hotel while we raided the mini-bar. For educational purposes.

Burnt Poetry

I want everyone to vote for my poem in the Burnt Toast Diner poetry contest, because it's the only poem not written by a robot.

How did I learn to be such a good poet? It's simple--I nearly failed English class twice. Those stupid robots didn't get my free alien spirit and would take points away from my epic, free form poems. But after awhile I learned enough styles of poetry and threatened to beam my teachers back to my home planet enough times that my grades got better.

So, please check out a work of poetic genius that will blow your pathetic robot minds.

Spring Break!

Today was the last day of classes before spring break, so obviously no one really cared about classes, but yet I still found myself in the computer lab trying to tutor that stupid cheerleader Debbie in trigonometry so she didn't fail her classes and permanently lose her spot on the team, because apparently her drunken stupor put the entire squad in danger, and aparently that's a big deal because they were regional cheer champions a few years ago or whatever.

Now, I've made it painfully obvious to everyone that I do not care about all this BS, but I get to hear about it nonstop, because my counselor is, like, West blah blah blah too negative blah blah blah behavioral problems blah blah blah, and now I have to tutor people who are even more screwed up than me, but still get the tacit approval of this ridiculous society we live in, just so I can prove that I'm not some delinquent or something.

But anyway, I was trying to get all these formulas through her thick skull when this other cheerleader, May, interrupted us.

"Hey, West, is it true that you and Claire broke up?" May asked.

And I said, "Yeah. So what? I'm not going to go out with you if that's why you're asking. I've already found this hot older girl anyway."

"Oh please, West," she snapped back, "you're not even close to being my type."

"Could she buy us some beer?" Debbie interrupted.

Good god, I cannot wait to get out of this petty little hellhole. At least spring break will give me the chance to just get away from this for a little while. I plan on spending my break flying down to Tijiuana a few times, and maybe visit the mountains or the beach. I've also got a Gundam model kit that I've never finished, so I could work on that a bit.

I was wondering if Elle would help me buy a gun so I could practice my aim while flying.

De-stress With West

It's times like these--when evil robot-men run rampant, the Slusho machine at the 7-Eleven is broken, and my girlfriend shows that she's tougher than me--that I really appreciate the fact that I can fly. Up-up-and-away without a care in the world.

But you must wonder: West, is that all you do?

Of course not! I brilliantly alien mind like mine is too clever to just settle with gliding aroung idly. There are plenty of fun things to do while flying, and they help keep my mind off the fact that the entire world is mind-numbingly robotic.

One thing that I like to do is mix vanilla frosting with diced blueberries and pour it into a ziploc bag with a hole cut into the corner, then fly above a busy highway and squeeze dollops of the mix onto the cars below. It's the perfect fake bird poop!

Another thing that I like to do is take a box of marshmallow Peeps up in the air with me and throw all the little birdies into a marshmallow flock, then try to catch them all in my mouth before they hit the ground.

So tell me, all you stupid little Deceptacons, what would you do with an awesome power like mine?

Cautionary Tale

There are these scientists who have created robot cockroaches and have been performing studies to see how these cockroaches make group decisions. Using these robots, the scientists have been able to get the cockroaches to do things that they otherwise would not do.

In my view, people aren't at all different. Just tell them that something is cool and you can lead them like lambs to the slaughter. Or cockroaches. Or robots. Or whatever. My English teacher says that I keep mixing metaphors. And shifting tenses. And writing sentence fragments. Personally, I think that the rules of language are just another BS device that constrains the full potential of our minds, rendering anyone who shakes off these limits alien to the world around them. Like the way the Dadaists destroyed language. But my teachers never listen to me, they just repeat, in their machine-like tones, that I just need to do what they say.

But where was I again? Oh yeah, don't be a robot. Or a sheep. Or a cockroach. You do whatever you want and screw the consequences! Life's too short to be someone's company man.

Four Months Ago

The other day I had another session with the guidance counselor, because the school's concerned with my "behavioral problems" or whatever. Really, I'm beginning to hate these robots more and more every day. What's even worse is that now that the man in the horn-rimmed glasses, my would-be father-in-law, is dead, I don't have anything on which to focus my unearthly rage. That sucks!

So my counselor is all like, "West, tell me about your family."

And I'm like, "Hell, no! I don't want to talk about my family. I try my hardest to avoid them. That's why I'm always flying around doing whatever I feel like!"

But then the counselor threatened my with detention again if I didn't cooperate, so I told her about my family Thanksgiving a few months ago.

You see, my family used to have big Thanksgiving dinners with our relatives back when we lived in St. Louis and everyone was nearby, but ever since we moved to Costa Verde it has only been the three of us for the holidays--me, Ma, and Pop.

I don't exactly hate my parents, but they are total robots! All they do is work, watch TV, and give me crap about my life. "West," they say, "you need to quit talking this science fiction nonsense and do better in school. All the Rosens have been well-adjusted, productive members of society, and we don't want you to have the reputation as this family's black sheep!"

And I always respond with something like, "Society is just the operating system that all you robots run on! And I'm not a sheep! You're sheep! Robot sheep!"

Of course, we had another big argument like this around Thanksgiving, because I let Ma sleep in and cooked vegetarian curry and flan instead of the traditional turkey dinner that Ma had planned. And then I insisted on watching the robot wars on Discovery Channel instead of the big football game. Finally they just kicked me out of the house for the rest of the day and I just flew around.

I didn't see my parents again until the next morning, after Ma and Pop got back from the holiday shopping they were programmed to do. Ma got mad at me because I smelled like smoke and she thought I had shoplifted a pack of cigarettes or something. What she didn't realize was that I had rigged up a bunch of remote-control toy robots to set fire to the Radio Shack before the holiday sale started.

All I wanted was a Pepsi

So I was hanging out by the vending machines between classes today, kicking at them and craving a Pepsi. You see, my school has this exclusive deal with Coca-Cola, where they sell themselves out for a few extra bucks if they only sell Coke. And really, they're both evil corporations that poison the groundwater in India, and only robots care about brand loyalty, but I wanted a Pepsi on principle: no one can tell me what to drink!

So there I am, kicking at the machines, little robots in their own right, and this hall monitor, this teacher's pet in Coke-bottle frames, comes up to me and tells me that the guidance counselor wants to speak to me. And his glasses--man, his lenses were so thick they looked like a robot's vision sensors, and I swear to god that if he was wearing horned rims I would have slammed his face into the hallway tile there and then. I just get twitchy sometimes, you know?

But I just go down to the office, and the guidance counselor is looking at me all serious and tells me to sit down. "West," she says, "we've been reading your blog entries, and we're concerned about you."

And I start fuming, "You can't censor me! My thoughts are what make me unique! And what about Debbie? You tolerated all those drunken MySpace pictures of hers until she finally got busted on school grounds!"

But does she pay attention? No! She just shoves some colored pencils and a sheet of scratch paper in my face and says, "Draw me what you feel."

I look at her, incredulous. "What am I, twelve?"

And like a robot, she responds, "I could have you suspended for insubordination."

So I grab the pencils and start drawing. Now, I'm no Isaac Mendez, but I think I'm okay. And the guidance counselor looks at me with her brow furrowed, and she says, "West, I recognize that you are a very gifted young man, but you also seem very disturbed. Maybe you should find something to occupy your time and keep you out of trouble, like a part-time job. I hear that Copy Kingdom is hiring."

And I'm thinking, Seriously? Copy Kingdom? I hear the manager there is a total fascist, and that mustache makes him look like a pedophile. No way!

But all I say is, "No thank you."

And she just sighs and rubs her eyelids like she has this major headache coming on, and I finally appreciate just what a sucky job she has, seeing all these robots move in and out every day, and I cave. "Is there something I could volunteer to do?"

So now I'm stuck with the worst possible task: tutoring all the robotic jocks and cheerleaders to make sure that they stay eligible to participate in extracurriculars. Like I care.

Anyway, in case you were wondering, here's the picture that I drew for the guidance counselor: