Listen Chief, I Only Follow Two Sets of Rules:

1.) My own,

and

2.) NONE.

I recently reported that I wasn't going to be using this blog for blogging until there were logs of people longing to snog my blog.

Well, one odd thing about me is that I have a massive but almost entirely passive-aggressive rebellious streak, and this streak has struck me since writing that I wouldn't stretch the purpose of this blog, and thus I'm going to start stretching the strata of this st-

I've been watching Pushing Daisies. Clever alliteration and lyrical progression is on my mind, as is the sad knowledge that I will never be as horribly clever at it as the writers for that much loved but much soon to be over show.

In any case, here is me blogging:

It is winter break! A great many people enjoy it, but I find it to be a nearly unbearably horrible ordeal. Let us explore this briefly.

I have been working for my father, who owns a restaurant and bar, since I was 12. That is to say, specifically, I have worked every Friday and Saturday since I was twelve, with literally the following exceptions:

One Friday when I just started working
Two to three times due to sickness
The Friday and Saturday of Prom
One Saturday for a Rennaissance Faire
One Saturday for a wedding
And two Fridays, including tonight, for snow.

There may be more, by perhaps a day or so. In any case, nary a handful of missed weekend work days in roughly nine or ten years. This is to illustrate the point, which is that I work. A lot. Except for Monday, I have been at work every night and a couple of days since I came back. I will continue to do so for the rest of vacation.

On the one hand, I have no right to complain because me working has gotten me the financial stability I have, and my dad works a shitton to put me through college and I should be helping him.

On the other hand, working food service destroys my faith in the human race and the vast majority of time I'm not actually doing anything, which is endlessly boring and mentally taxing.

I digress. I work pretty much every night. When I have school? Four nights of glorious free time, which is used almost exclusively on TV and interwebs. I enjoy it, and the solitude that comes with it, quite a bit. Being home after being in your own apartment several days a week for months is unpleasant for obvious reasons I don't think I need to go into here.

What else is going on with me? I've been drawing a lot. Drawing drawing drawing. Some of it is graphics for a game, some of it is a huge drawing that is barely 1/3 done without coloring but already the best thing I've ever made. I will probably post it here because it looks not horrible, I can show you the in-progress version of it if you ask me because people who know about it have been interested to see my outlines vs. final versions and such.

I miss school. Last semester was nice, and by some bizarre aligning of the planets I magically started to make friends in the last like, month in a half. It actually creeped me out. Not that I minded finding people at school that didn't make me hate the world, oh no. It was cool.

But really. I figure my constant attachment to my headphones, my nearly monk-like silence outside of class discussions, and my aura of nerdery should ward humans and medium-size animals away, but for some reason recently people started talking to me all the time. Kids would just be walking out of a class, kids I did not even recognize, and they would make comments about the class.

Here's a fun game: Want to hear Phil make an ass out of himself? Say something to him when he's not expecting to be spoken to. It's hilarious, he stumbles over his words and has no idea what to say. You should probably ask him about Spiderman or something after so he doesn't go into a coma.

Anyway, people have been talking to me a lot and I have no idea why, but as much as I adore my lone-wolf swagger it's nice to meet cool people, even if I probably wont see most of them ever again.

I feel, often, as if I have a compulsion to portray myself as a slinking creature of darkness, muttering Sandman quotes to himself as he adjusts his robes to best mimic the shadows, wringing his hands as he maniacly thinks of ways to be antisocial, emerging but once a year to feast on tacos and the blood of the innocent before receding back into his high-perched cave to spin his vile webs of solitude.

I'm not saying I'm not. I'm just saying I seem to portray myself that way.

But then again, there are an overwhelming number of people who think I'm an extroverted party animal who probably hotboxes his bentley so who knows.

Is this actually more interesting than me writing about people doing it then shooting each other? I have to wonder.