12.26.2010
merry belated christmas
11.02.2010
facts of life
old people love coffee.
10.27.2010
is this real life?
this shit is fucking funny
10.08.2010
you're not SMRT
it's embarassing. really.
what do the following things all have in common?
1) a bee hive
2) a chess board
3) england
"i don't know!"
"i was thinking something to do with pawn, but that doesn't make sense"
...seriously??!
i hope she doesn't have aspirations of becoming a brain surgeon when she grows up.
i'd probably rather leave my life in the hands of a pile of rocks.
have a nice day.
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10.04.2010
i want to punch you in the face: on the fly edition
if you wanna buy smokes from domo, how about you don't park inbetween the two fucking pumps while i'm pulling up to get gas?
fucking donkey.
don't worry, i'll wait.
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9.01.2010
i want to punch you in the face
8.29.2010
bag of assholes
it's official.
8.17.2010
almost famous
i want to punch you in the face
episode: two
7.30.2010
this just in...
7.14.2010
i want to punch you in the face
7.07.2010
is this real life?
7.03.2010
the muppet show
should i start this blog off with a question?
6.28.2010
home movies
free fallin'
6.22.2010
taste it
kentucky wildcats
6.21.2010
tears of joy
ralph lauren
6.20.2010
wingdings
what type ARE you?
dj honda feat. black attack
6.19.2010
6.16.2010
is this real life?
can i kick it?
6.09.2010
flawless victory
6.02.2010
untitled 2
and the winner is...
go play in traffic, idiot.
5.28.2010
untitled
i've never really been required to maintain a high level of creativity in my spare time before, so i've clearly never had to deal with it. nor do i know how to get rid of it...
it's kind of weird. i decided to start this blog to enable myself to be creative on a semi regular basis, instead of letting my brain turn to mashed potatoes by watching tv and doing other mindless shit. i've even started teaching myself to play guitar around that time to help get the creative juices flowing.
it, clearly, proved to be an effective tool, as i came out of the gate quickly and was able to keep a steady pace. i felt inspired all the time.
however, over the past few weeks, i've felt nothing.
i've been busy with work, life and recently spent a week house sitting (where i had no wireless internet...which was brutal. i felt so distant and uncomfortable - it was weird. but, anyways...)
long story short - i feel uninspired. distracted, perhaps?
there doesn't seem like there's anything worth talking about or drawing attention to.
maybe it's because of all the rain and shitty weather? maybe i'm depressed? maybe i'm in love?
who knows...
i'll be back soon, don't worry.
until then, my friends...
<3 booya.xo
random song at the moment: you're ever so inviting - underoath
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5.17.2010
what's the deal with old people?
so, i'm on the elevator in my apartment building just now and a nice old lady gets on.
she, of course, mentions how hot it is today...(old people love talking about the weather. it's science)
i say "i know! isn't it great?!"
she says "no! give me winter anyday"
shocked, all i manage to say is "oh wow, really?!"
she confirms her statement and i exit the elevator, baffled.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!
OLD PEOPLE LOVE BEING HOT!!!
it's absurd.
you'd figure they'd be in their glory during the summer.
i was almost certain old people kept their heat on in the summer to maximize the heat potential, because they love it so much.
guess i was wrong?
old people love heat when it's cold, and cold when it's hot, but they want it to be cold so they can be hot?
i guess i'll never understand...
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5.13.2010
red bull and vodka
welcome to winnipeg.
keep up the good work.
love, my liver.xo
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5.11.2010
dear cleveland,
5.05.2010
5.04.2010
may the 4th be with you
really?
really??
somebody told me about it today at work, and it was legitamately so ridiculous and unbelievable, i had to google it for proof.
[granted, you can't believe everything you read on the internet (except this blog. everything is 100% factual. guaranteed), but i investigated none-the-less]
so, apparently, may 4th is also called "luke skywalker day"?
what a heaping pile of retarded.
why is it that nerds have nothing better to do than play video games, blog, watch tv/movies, not bathe, surf the internet, and make up ridiculous shit to satisfy their nerdiness?
wait...blogging isn't nerdy is it?
fuck.
whatever.
check out conan o'brien's old friend, triumph the comedy insult dog, rip some star wars nerds to shreds...
enjoy,
nerds.
Sent from my BlackBerry® smartphone on the MTS High Speed Mobility Network
4.29.2010
summertime rhyme
hee haw
a e i o u and sometimes y
4.28.2010
dave matthews band
4.25.2010
30's the new 20
dr. huckstable
rest in beats
4.23.2010
4.22.2010
4.19.2010
me first and the gimme gimmes
4.15.2010
these blogs are making me thirsty
4.14.2010
glow in the dark bikini
well, friends...
magnetic, like refrigerator poetry
When I see my friends in a different field,
I wave to them and they wave back,
but what we shout is so strange to hear,
the wind seems to carry the import of our words
to someone somewhere else.
We’re left grinning and waving, then—
because we have companions who, impatient,
want to go on with the walk and conversation—
we have to go on, almost without choosing to,
almost without noticing
this thing we’re lightly driven to do.
We look back—at whom we saw and let walk on
in a field in the evening with different companions,
remembering (as if seeing old neighborhoods
beneath their changes): someone
we once knew remaining and remaining, no matter
how long we walk and how often we look
back—until whoever’s walking with us stops
and demands we catch up, physically and in thought,
and, because that’s what we owe, we do.
In a room with windows in each of four walls, a young man props his feet on the table.
The apple trees rattle.
The wind moves in waves past the garden
where okra and lettuce lie bent and bruised from the rain.
Where tomatoes and melons lie rotting.
Where the man lies rotting with wasps in his eyes.
Where nothing lies.
In a room with windows in each of four walls, a young man lies sprawled on a blanket, dreaming of frogs.
He bathes at night in a pond by a slippery elm, singing,
take them take me home foggy home froggy home.
The room has windows in two of four walls.
There are no crickets. No one sings.
Frogs troop through the fields riding the backs of iron turtles.
The apple trees snap in the high wind, split and lie down.
There is no room. No one is sleeping.
The apple trees lie like weeds in the yard.
A man sits with his hand on a calendar, turning the pages.
There is no pond.
He stands on the threshold watching the rain. There is no roof.
The crickets are singing.
The crickets are quiet.
The crickets have huge eyes.
He patches the roof and sleeps beneath it,
plants a field of melons by the pond.
There are no frogs.
He sits in a field of rain where turtles rust, says they will be waiting they
will wait forever by the river’s mud.
There are no turtles.
In a room without windows, a man sits with his thumbs in his eyes, says
I remember ribbons of dust.
There is no rain.
Says we will be found with flowers tucked behind our ears.
Says I still remember another spring
the slow wring of cast iron tears
bells in the morning seeking the blind
among tin thimbles of frost left on the hills
and trash piles burning in their little
hollows among the pines.
There were no pines.
There is no man.
The crickets remember nothing.
Because I was the paper boy,
I knew when everyone was
and wasn’t in town.
I stole for fun and for the small
heavy objects I could tell
wouldn’t be missed for a long while.
The looking in ticking rooms,
the discrete rummaging
in strangers’ closets and garages
in the early mornings
of the neighborhood
I kept for myself.
I gave my girlfriends cameras.
I gave my father power tools.
I gave my mother a stained glass watch.
Escaped from God’s hidden zoo,
hunger takes up residence in you,
nibbling your patience, siphoning pride,
enjoying the warm wet conditions inside.
You tried to stop it (but were too slow).
You shouted for God (as if God didn’t know).
Now, you unclench and allow it to slither and shudder.
You feed it like a cow feeds its own udder.
If God had wanted his hunger back,
he needed to have split it from its snack
before I grew so fond of His pet
and it grew fond of me in secret.
Now, however, we’re a single creature,
neither it nor I, no student, no teacher.
Apologies, Boss, if there’s been a miscue.
There’s nothing left in this house to rescue.
"David Bruzina Ph.D. - In 2006, he held a postdoctoral fellowship at Ohio University having completed his PhD in American Literature and Creative Writing there the previous year. He also holds an MA in Philosophy from Virginia Tech, an MFA in Poetry from UNC-Greensboro and a BA in English, Philosophy and Sociology from Macalester College. From 2001-2004, he directed the Gathering Place Writing Project, which involved clients of Athens County (Ohio) Mental Health Services in the local literary community. In the summers, he continues to teach in, and direct, the "Area II" Critical Thinking and Intellectual History division of the North Carolina Governor's School (West).
A dedicated generalist with interests ranging from Southern fiction and contemporary poetry to literary theory and the history of philosophy, Dr. Bruzina enjoys exploring the relationships between literary or theoretical texts and first person extracurricular experiences.
Dr. Bruzina's poems have appeared in a number of journals, including StorySouth, Cultural Logic, From the Fishouse, Third Coast and the Greensboro Review. He has recently finished his first book manuscript and hopes it will appear in print soon. His short review (of USCA faculty member) Roy Seeger's first book The Boy Whose Hands Were Birds is forthcoming from the International Poetry Review."
source: university of south carolina aiken, faculty website.
i love my family.