Sunday, 9 February 2014

Oops I'm Horrifyingly Embarrassing

A story of my LEGENDARY smoothness.

I'm currently enrolled in my first ever real college chemistry course.

I've been really psyched to do an awesome, professional job. I was going to do this chemistry class better than it's ever been done.

Part of my homework this week was to find a scene in a TV show or movie where laboratory glassware was being misused. We had to post it online on the class discussion board. I picked the scene from emperor's new groove where Yzma accidentally knocks the poison onto the plant. 

I explained it fucking awesomely. My post was the length of a Shakespearean play. I even decided to go the extra mile and post the link to the scene on youtube, which I had open in another tab.

So I do. Hit save on that bitch. Felt so proud of my wonderful job. Really outdid myself on this assignment.

Hours later, 



I go back to look at what other people have posted. I notice there's a response on my thread. Oh boy, I say. Attention. I click to see. All it says is 'wtf'.

My stomach sink a little. What do you mean, 'wtf', I say. Jelly bitch. Jelly you didn't come up with that scene. Jelly you didn't say as much about YOUR scene. Jelly you didn't demonstrate how well you know about the glassware.

 I copy the link out of my thread and paste it in another tab to watch my genius scene again.

Except it's not fucking my scene. It's not. It's not fucking. 

I'm still sweating from the horror of what it was.

It's something I had copied earlier to send to a friend on facebook.

It's this.









How many people do you think saw before somebody said something, guys

how many people

do you think?

maybe the professor saw. 

She has a PhD.

Wednesday, 23 October 2013

Wall Ghost

Story motherfucking time.

So my sister's boyfriend has an identical twin, and we were sitting here trying to think of funny halloween costumes for them. We decided to submit a post to askreddit, but I didn't want to put his picture up on there, so we decided to just figure out who his celebrity look-alike was and tell them that. 

We went to this website that lets you upload your picture and it'll generate your look-alike. I picked one where he was facing the camera square-on and uploaded it.

But something weird happened.

What the fuck?!

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I told the website that face #2 was the one I wanted it to find look-alikes for.

This is what it produced.


I just

I don't

Thursday, 26 September 2013

Mr. Baker and the Bazooka E-mail

The time has come for me to interrupt the theme here. So far I’ve only told stories about the most ridiculous events of my childhood, and seeing as how I have a knack for doing ridiculous things, there was quite a high standard of ridiculousness to be met before a story would make it to post-dom. But to my utter disbelief, my sister’s life has managed to produce an event so fucking unbelievable that it’s in a class of its own. This is the story of Laura and Mr. Baker.

Laura has recently graduated high school and is now attending community college. Her English class is being taught by one Mr. Baker, a man who received absolutely glowing reviews on He’s one of those aloof, charismatic teachers that you can’t help but like. The kind you’d want to have a beer with, the kind you might wish was your uncle, instead of your real uncle, who might have an alarmingly extensive collection of nazi memorabilia hidden in that one back room that he had always insisted was for storage which you accidentally stumbled upon that one time when you were seven thinking it was the bathroom and now you aren’t allowed to tell his Jewish parole officer about. I mean what?

I feel the need to stress how intensely shy Laura is. She suffers from extremely debilitating social anxiety, to the point where she has to psyche herself up for ten minutes just to summon up the courage to raise her hand and answer a question, and then forcefully pretends like she’s composed for the following ten minutes while bear-coming-at-you levels of adrenaline slowly dissipate from her system. She suffers from exactly the same cognitive feedback that I did in middle school, making desperate futile efforts to monitor and scrutinize her own moment-to-moment behavior for fear of embarrassment. This doesn’t, in fact, work. It, in fact, has precisely the opposite effect. But that’s a story for another day.

 One day, Mr. Baker assigned the class their first essay. It was a persuasive essay on a topic of your choice, on the condition that you get the topic OK’d by the teacher beforehand. Laura wanted to do it on why attending community college was wiser than jumping into 4-year universities right away, and she had a multitude of reasons to support the idea. Baker didn’t like it, told her she could do it if she wanted, but he wouldn’t recommend it.

He challenged one of her pieces of evidence, which was the fact that some part-time community college teachers also teach at extremely expensive private institutions. He seemed to be insinuating that it wasn’t a valid point, even though it established the fact that you’re getting the same expertise at community college that some people pay hundreds of thousands for at a private university.

She made the mistake of informing him that she knew that he had worked at one of the most expensive Universities in the area. It really pissed him off, to her surprise, and she decided to just cut her losses and go home.

She decided she still liked the topic, and would write the essay on it anyway. For many people, it would feel like a chore, but one of Laura’s favorite hobbies is writing. She plans to write novels when she’s older, and prides herself on her wordsmithing ability. She was eager to demonstrate her competence to Mr. Baker, knowing that she could prove to him that her topic was a good one. He would recognize her raw talent and perhaps even acknowledge her in front of everybody, thereby establishing her as not, in fact, weird, and effectively relieving some of her social anxiety. Everybody knew that this man was cool as hell. Nobody he admired could possibly be embarrassing. This was the key. She was fucking on it.

She carefully crafted that essay every day until she was perfectly satisfied with it. She triumphantly handed it to Mr. Baker and awaited his inevitable praise. It was in the bag.

And then it all went horribly wrong. The next day, Mr. Baker came in and was visibly annoyed. He angrily informed the class that virtually all of them had failed the essay. People exchanged looks. This wasn’t the man they’d met before. Something in his demeanor had changed drastically and based on what he was saying, it was entirely to blame on the students and their shitty pathetic excuse for essays. Laura was terrified that it might be because she’d defied his advice.

His irritation slowly mounted until it exploded fourth in a merciless verbal onslaught directed first at the students personally and eventually to every member of their generation. At one point, he chose a few words from a book and accused them of not knowing what they meant, personally demanding the definition from individual students, one by one. Nobody responded. They might have been afraid that he would turn them to stone with the sheer force of his contempt of them. He turned to Laura, and demanded she provide an excuse for their ignorance of vocabulary.

In reality, she knew what those words meant, as the majority of the other students there probably did. They weren't hard words, but nobody in their right mind would risk being wrong in the face of this rage. Meekly, she suggested that he teach them the things that he felt they should know. She said it out of panic. She said it as a desperate attempt to appease the guy, to get him to stop looking at her. It didn’t work. It had the opposite effect. He continued to rant, now in a slightly higher pitch, until he felt he could no longer look at them and abruptly left the room, never to come back. It was about 10 minutes into a 3-hour class. They were stunned. Oh my god. What the fuck.

The next day, he came into class just as angry as ever, and did the last thing I’d ever expect a teacher to do. He said, “It’s really entirely Laura’s fault that I left class yesterday.”

Laura sat there in silence doing her best to collapse into a black hole while he spent a good few minutes blaming her personally for his behavior the previous day, making sure to mention her by name. It must have felt like an eternity. He didn’t stop at doing it once. He singled her out by name multiple times over the remaining 3-hour class period. He cattily informed Laura that he "wouldn't be playing her games".

What in the utter name of fuck? What?!

Schizophrenia has become a valid possibility at this point. This is a girl who does her level best to avoid being noticed at all, who finds the idea of being the focus of attention emotionally crippling. She strategically sits next to the door in every one of her classes just in case the overwhelming need to run overcomes her. Simply driving to school can sometimes trigger an anxiety attack, and she was personally attacked by the TEACHER during the first couple weeks of class. She’s going to have to go back there for the entire semester. People are going to look at her, and Mr. Baker is going to loom. She HAS to go back there. For the entire semester. Imagine if this had happened to you, seriously.

She came home and she told me about what happened.

One of the things I don’t do very well is tolerate. Tolerate is not what I did.

Mr. Baker’s ass was mine.

I’m honestly baffled by what has transpired in that class, and the only way I can make any sense of it would be to assume that Mr. Baker’s going through some serious personal shit and/or has suddenly developed some problem with his brain that has a 7-syllable medical name and an obscure team of Russian scientists developing treatments for in an underground lab at the expense of heaps of unfortunate monkeys. The thing is, I don’t give the hairy crack of a rat’s ass why Mr. Baker did what he did.

All I know is that he thought he would get away with it, probably because Laura is clearly so cripplingly shy. He experienced general anger because the essays were bad. He felt that her blasphemous suggestion that he teach had destabilized his inflated sense of self-importance and authority. He assumed that meek Laura wouldn’t do anything about it, that she would just be humiliated and shrivel up and be easy to make an example out of. That’s the part that pisses me off the most. He felt invulnerable.

I needed to destroy him.

Laura and I spent the next two and a half hours carefully crafting a nuclear fucking bomb e-mail to the Dean of English. It was scathing. It was eloquent. It was career-ruining. It was beautiful. The fact that he thought she sucked at English made it so much more sweet.

It is the best and most satisfying piece of writing I have ever constructed in my life.
Hitting send on that bitch gave me chills. As we did, Laura muttered ‘bazookaaa’. It’s the perfect word to describe what we’d done.

I honestly only wrote this post in the first place so that I could show off the e-mail. I’m like an old man. I get a buzz out of writing strongly-worded letters, and the more people who see it, the better.
Now view.

To whom is may concern, 

My name is Laura –last name omitted- and I am a current student at –omitted- College (-studentIDnumber-). I would like to issue a complaint regarding my English Composition professor, Mr. –first name omitted- Baker.

I attend his classes on –time of class omitted-. Recently Mr. Baker received our first assignment, and subsequently made a point of telling us that our performance was not up to par. He told the entire class that most of the students either failed or came very close to it. I don’t take issue with the fact that we did poorly. I choose to mention this only because it struck the entire class as strange that we could have dutifully followed all of his instructions and still managed to fall short of his expectations. 

It’s fair to assume that among any random group of students, the majority would be highly motivated to do well and eager to demonstrate their competence, and yet he was very dissatisfied with what we’d produced. I also choose to mention this because this was the first unusual scene in a series of increasingly bizarre episodes of Mr. Baker’s behavior, and seems to be the only thing that could have motivated what followed.

On the date of Tuesday September 24th, Mr. Baker spent the first fifteen minutes of class ranting at us about how "lazy" and "unengaged" we as students were. We were only a few weeks into the semester and he already seemed to have quite a lot to say about our poor character. He would occasionally appear to calm down and turn his attention to the lesson, only to explosively begin to rant again. For instance, after reading a short passage from the textbook, he suddenly chose a few difficult words and asked whether we “even knew what they meant”. He seemed disgusted with our shocked silence and then proceeded to storm out of class. When one particularly brave student followed him to his office and asked if he would be coming back, he said that he wouldn’t.

Each of us has paid for the privilege of taking this class. We had all taken the time and effort to come out to -school name- to attend lecture that day. Many students had other classes after his and found themselves with three hours to kill, and others had driven for over half an hour to get to school, myself included. Students are expected to attend class every day, it goes without saying that Mr. Baker is under a professional obligation to show up and teach the classes to the best of his ability. Based on his ludicrous and completely unprofessional behavior it would seem he disagrees.

Then, this morning, Thursday September 26th, Mr. Baker made a point of singling me out personally and blaming me in particular for his walking out of class. He said, word for word, "It's really Laura's fault I left class."

As you can imagine this was extremely embarrassing and distressing. He continued to single me out by name multiple times before the class ended. I believe he said something about "not playing my games".

I have no idea what "games" he is referring to. I am a very quiet student due to the fact that I suffer from social anxiety. Whatever it is that he imagines I have done, this was the first time he had brought it to my attention. I have barely said three words to this man and I’m shocked and appalled that he would be using public humiliation as a primary disciplinary tactic. 

This is the first time in my life a teacher has suggested that I have a behavioral problem at all, and the fact that it was brought to my attention this way was far beyond what I’ve come to expect from an institution such as -school name-. I would like to imagine that you hold your staff to a higher caliber of professional conduct. 

If a professor has a problem with my behavior, I expect him to address it privately with me and to specifically tell me what I’m doing wrong and what he expects me to change. This man instead chose to throw a tantrum and publicly reprimand me for “playing games”. This experience is so outlandish that I’m almost prepared to suggest that Mr. Baker is suffering from some sort of psychological episode. To think that he could be carrying out something like this while in full possession of his faculties defies reason.

Due to personal circumstances, it is of utmost importance that I succeed in this class. I went in with every intention to give my 110% and complete every assignment to the absolute best of my ability. Unfortunately, due to Mr. Baker’s conduct, an extremely uncomfortable tension has been imposed upon the class atmosphere and I’m faced with the prospect of dealing with it for the rest of the semester. 

Every class session from now on is bound to be intensely awkward and embarrassing for me, and I have no choice but to continue to attend. I’m also worried that my future grades might be influenced by Mr. Baker’s disdain and contempt for me personally. I realize it’s cliché for a student to claim that their poor performance is because their teacher has a personal vendetta against them, but at this point it’s apparent that his actions defy common sense. If there’s even a remote possibility that Mr. Baker’s opinion of me will negatively influence my academic standing, it needs to be addressed. 

Mr. Baker is a bully, and I cannot tolerate being treated this way. 

I expect to be kept informed of what action will be taken regarding this matter.

Thank you,

Laura –last name omitted-“

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

The Dance

Throughout my life, the only thing I’ve been able to do with anything resembling consistency is embarrass myself. I essentially live in a state of perpetual soul-wrenching shame of my past conduct. 

As time moves on, I repeatedly make the mistake of believing I’ve moved on from my awkward phase. I think I’ve risen above it, and have become a perceptive, level-headed individual who is incapable of such horrific social fuck-uppery ever again. “Holy shit,” I think upon reflection of the past, “I used to be a social retard! Thank GOD I’m not like that anymore and have become the beacon of social tact that I am today.”

And yet, without fail, time moves on, that present becomes the new, embarrassing past, and the cycle begins again. I delude myself into thinking that I’ve changed in some fundamental way this time. I’ve grown, gained new perspective, learned from experience. But no. It will happen again. I WILL do something mortifying. It is written in my DNA. At the ripe age of 22, I have finally come to grips with this fact.

However, at the age of 13, I had not yet amassed enough life experience to have recognized this pattern. I did not yet realize that I was doomed to fail, and had embarked on a mission to become a cool kid. This was around the onset of puberty, and I had become obsessively self-conscious. I made the mistake of trying to prevent further instances of social ineptitude by carefully analyzing every decision and attempting to monitor my second-to-second behavior. 

The human brain is not capable of doing this. Something about the process of analyzing and judging oneself in real-time is fundamentally flawed. You become trapped in a feedback loop of self-consciousness and anxiety, and you find that by some sick twist of irony, your efforts to appear normal produce the exact opposite effect. You’re INTENSELY awkward. You’re visibly neurotic. Your desire to be tactful is so overwhelming of your mental faculties that you begin to spiral uncontrollably into a chaos of new and exotic embarrassing situations, which only serves to amplify your crippling self-consciousness and propel you ever-faster towards your next spectacular social failure.

The most painfully embarrassing event in my life occurred in early middle school, when I was in the depths of a particularly debilitating awkward-feedback-death-spiral. I had become so pointlessly ashamed of myself that I socially imploded. Out of desperation to protect my fragile ego, I had decided to just never ever let myself do ANYTHING. I would not talk. I would not move unnecessarily. I would not make eye contact. Only the biological processes necessary for cellular respiration were tolerable. I had been doing a fairly good job at maintaining this level of activity, when one of my very few friends mentioned the school dance.

Dances were an entirely new thing to me. My understanding of them was based solely on the Disney Channel, and, being incredibly naïve, I assumed that the Disney Channel’s portrayal of school dances was completely 100% accurate.

As fate would have it, my body was very busy puberty-ing at the time. Very. Busy. The sheer magnitude of my puberty may have single-handedly set off the puberties of every kid who touched a door handle after me. As a result, I had abruptly decided a few weeks earlier that boys and their opinions of me were now extremely fucking important.

 I thought that if I could persuade a boy to take interest in me, his approval would single-handedly negate all of my insecurities and forever certify my every quality as acceptable and officially ’not weird’. If I could occupy the attention of a member of the opposite sex, it would mean that he hadn’t heard about how catastrophically embarrassing I was. If he hadn’t heard about how catastrophically embarrassing I was, it would mean that people weren’t discussing it. If people weren’t discussing it, it would mean that they hadn’t actually ostracized me yet. They hadn’t noticed any of the embarrassing stuff I’d already done. Which meant I still had a blank slate. I would still have a shot at becoming accepted by humanity. My social life was salvageable. Boys were the key to escaping the spiral. There was a way out, and it was important. By god, was it so epically important.

The dance occupied my every thought for the next few days. I indulged in extremely elaborate fantasies about a ‘secret admirer’ that would eventually use the dance as an opportunity to approach me. First, I would find an anonymous note in my locker from him. The note would say that he had been admiring me from afar, but was too shy to say anything to me. 

I wanted that god damn note more than anything. Every time I made a trip to my locker, my heart would race as I pictured opening it and finding the note.  I came up with word-for-word possibilities of what the note might say. I thought about how much fun I would have trying to guess who had left it. I picked out random kids in my classes and wondered if it would end up being them. 

I thought about how the last in a series of anonymous notes would instruct me to go to the dance, where we would meet, like fated lovers.

Then, on the day of the dance, I would be so much hotter than any other girl there. The school gym would somehow have transformed into a royal ballroom, and there would totally be a chandelier. And then a slow song would come on, and from the crowd would step the boy.

Everybody would see that a real live actual male human had approached me, and they would all make a mental note that I was not weird, as the boy would take me in his arms and slow dance. 

Then a spotlight would totally fall on us, and everybody would form a circle around us. It would be a magical circle of official social validation. I would absorb the power of the magic circle and never be embarrassing again. I would emerge from the dance like a butterfly from a cocoon, forever liberated from the realm of social retardation, and would from then on be incapable of ever doing anything embarrassing ever again. It was going to be awesome.

Time went on and I wasn’t getting a note from my secret admirer. The date of the dance was getting closer. I reluctantly decided that I had to go to the dance, even though my secret admirer had been too shy to leave me a locker note. He was out there somewhere, thinking about the dance as well, and working up the courage to finally confess his feelings. 

I couldn’t deprive him of that chance. I bought my ticket. My friend bought hers. It was happening.

The day of the dance came. I spent hours trying to work up the courage to dress in something eye-catching, but I settled eventually on an oversized band shirt and baggy mom pants. My friend and I were two of the first few people there. We stood there motionless in the center of the dance floor, completely at a loss as to what was supposed to happen. 

To avoid talking to any of the 6 other people there, we resigned ourselves to standing in the corner where the free food and drinks were. That way we could drink soda constantly to look busy.

As time passed, more people showed up. Some of the people started dancing in closed-circle groups. I watched them, envious of their ability to throw caution to the wind and dance in public. I wondered where my secret admirer was, as I downed my 7th giant cup of mountain dew. 

It eventually became quite crowded. I started to feel safer. There were so many people there dancing, I slowly grew more comfortable with the idea that I might dance a little bit and nobody would notice it in a crowd this big. Nobody, that is, except my secret admirer. If I appeared more comfortable, he might work up the courage to finally approach me.

It escaped my notice that I had at this point single-handedly consumed close to an entire liter of mountain dew. The sugar and caffeine was accumulating in my tiny 6th grade body. Against my better judgment, I put my cup down and started to bounce a little to the rhythm of the music.

I was doing it! I was actually dancing at a dance, and nothing terrible was happening! Nobody was making fun of me! Nobody was even looking at me! I was encouraged. I started to dance more enthusiastically. I did things with my arms. I did things with my legs. Still, nobody was laughing at me.

I eventually built up the courage to turn away from my friend and seek eye contact with people I didn’t know. I was totally being social. I would meet so many people, and I was totally going to be popular after this. 

It occurred to me then that I might be some kind of dance prodigy. I had never danced before, so how could I have known that it was my talent? Maybe on top of meeting my secret admirer, I would discover my one true passion in life. Dancing. Yes. My enthusiasm grew. I was going to be known as the best dancer in the school. I just had to really try.

I moved around more dramatically. I thought about those cheesy moments in Disney straight-to-TV movies where the underdog finally has his moment in the sun and shows everybody how talented he is. That was me. This was my moment. My enthusiasm rose exponentially, much in the way my blood sugar was. I started to incorporate jumping kicks and punches that I’d learned in suburb karate from a fat white guy. My god, I was awesome.

I decided to go and look for my friend. I found her on the exact opposite side of the room. I wanted to share my newly-found confidence with her. “WHY DON’T YOU DAAANCE?!” I screamed over the music as I flailed my limbs. “YOU JUST GO LIKE THIS!” I told her, as I showed her what you go like.

She was too embarrassed to dance. Poor thing, I thought. Maybe if I danced even harder, it’ll put her at ease. I started to involve hand-stands. I jumped aggressively into my first hand-stand and successfully balanced on my hands and got back on my feet. I was so super encouraged. From that point on, I included an aggressive hand-stand roughly every 30 seconds.

A circle was forming around me. Yes! I thought. It was working! The magical circle was happening! I thought of how amazing my dancing must look in order for the circle to have formed.

In reality, of course, it was a don’t-catch-the-weird circle. People were trying to get as far away from me as humanly possible so that nobody would make the mistake of thinking they knew me.  I didn’t know that, though. In my mind, I was beginning my transformation into a cool kid. 

My one actual friend was the farthest-away of them all.

Then, the most unexpected thing happened. During the apex of my spinning-kicky, punchy, pelvis-rotaty dance revolution, some random boy came up behind me and started doing that grind thing.

In reality, this was a joke. It was probably a super super hilarious joke.

But in my mind’s eye, this boy was doing the grind thing on me because he could no longer contain his overwhelming sexual desire for my incredible skills. Oh wow, I thought. I am changing lives tonight. Different boys did it. Two boys did it at once. I was on top of the fucking world. I had done it. I was now cool and could never ever do anything embarrassing ever again.  

I became so ludicrously enthusiastic that I started jumping into my handstands so hard that I would lose balance and fall all the way over and land tail-bone first onto the ground. I did not become embarrassed. There was enough caffeine in me to kill a small horse. There was no stopping me now.

Imagine what would happen to a chimpanzee if you gave it LSD and cocaine. That was my dance. It became so intensely chaotic that I started accidentally hitting people as they tried to get near me to mock me. I was too into it to even stop and apologize to them. I even vigorously attempted to break dance at one point. At long last, I finally stopped after several hours when they finally turned the music off.

I was still out of breath by the time I got into my mom’s car. I told her how incredibly amazing I had been and how everybody there had been so jealous of me. I also told my little sister about it when I got home. She  was super jealous and thought I was even cooler than she had thought I was before, which was already super cool. I didn’t even care that my secret admirer had been too intimidated to approach me. I had finally come out of my shell and I felt invincible.

The next day at school, some girl I kind of knew and her group of friends came up to me during lunch and asked me to show them my moves. I told them I needed music to get my jam on. I was thoroughly convinced that they were genuinely my fans. I. had fans.

Later that day, it abruptly, finally clicked.

I momentarily considered the possibility that what I had done was not, in fact, awesome, and was actually the most catastrophically mortifying thing that could have possibly been done.

And almost immediately I realized that yes. Yes it was.

And that’s why nobody is ever allowed to complain to me about how awful middle school was for them.

(true photo documentation of me building up my courage)

Tuesday, 24 July 2012

Crazy Vet Lady

So today I had a record-breaking wtf experience.

This morning while groggy and retarded I took my snakes to the vet.

I showed up early so I was stuck for a long time sitting in the waiting room holding a giant heavy storage bin full of snakes, looking casual as fuck.

This elderly woman with acrylic nails and wearing a huge poofy knitted black sweater covered in cat hairs came in and sat across from me, and started staring at me.

I was in the middle of doing an awesome job at pretending not to notice her when she randomly walked over and sat down RIGHT up against me. Like cuddle rape. Like boob and thigh contact.This random cat lady had just started abruptly spooning me without so much as an icebreaker. I sat paralyzed in stunned confusion as she slowly reached into the box I was balancing on my crotch and started stroking the snakes and making gaspy sex noises that I guess were supposed to be her 'admiring a thing' noises. She then leaned in close to my ear and whispered "Snakes like me".

I sat there short-circuiting until the vet lady called her into the back and she hobbled off.

I then imploded.


Time for creepy fucking true story time!

So I just recently came back from a vacation with my parents and sister at Sequoia National Park. We had booked a cabin which on the website looked like a luxury 2-story wooden castle but which turned out to be a rotting shack crawling with spiders and radioactive mutant ants and also had no electricity and a toilet from which you had an idyllic view of the back of the fridge.

Anyway. The best part about this shack was the fact that it turned out to be ass far from nowhere in the middle of nothing. We literally had to drive for an hour and fifteen minutes through dense, uninterrupted woods on a rocky dirt road that pulled more G's than your average six flags ride in order to get to another building. We would frequently come across a flabbergasted-looking deer which would stare in paralyzed awe at us like we were aliens.

Let that sink in before I get to the creepy part. There was an hour and a half of 5-foot-wide BMX track between our propane-lit spider shelter and the next feeble attempt at a human structure.

So. I was driving my drunk parents up this road at the end of the day. It was like 9:00 and at that point it was pitch ass dark. The road/trail was lit only by starlight and the narrow swinging beam of the highbeams. I'd been driving for like 45 minutes. I was spacing a little bit. I steer the car around a hairpin corner and illuminate the next patch of pitch darkness with the headlights.

There in the distance, standing on the edge of the trailroad, was a human.

I'd seen several deer and two bears at this point. And there stood a human.

What the fucking fuck. Why is this guy here. I short circuited. It's literally pitch fucking dark. There are no houses. It took me 45 minutes to come this far in a fucking jeep. Where the fuck. How the fuck. And this was not just any human! This was a lanky, filthy, tall white man with white blond hair that stood up like he'd just been struck by lightning. He had no flashlight, no hiking gear, there was no car. He wasn't walking. He wasn't even facing uphill. He was, in fact, turned directly toward me and was making eye contact from the moment my lights fell on him.

This dude had giant, bulging, insect-like bloodshot BLUE eyes and was staring right motherfucking at me.

I thusly began shrieking bloody murder and crying slightly. My family shat. I shat. It took a long ass time to get past the motherfucker. He stayed staring at me the whole time. He was smiling slightly. He panned along with the car as we passed and when I looked in the rearview after we'd gotten by, he was still facing us and disappearing into complete inky darkness.


The end.