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19:33 - Friday, Aug. 26, 2005
spinning stars
I was riding my bike and it was windy and as leaves shot at me with surprising force and accuracy, I suddenly pictured myself as Sonic the Hedgehog in that level where you've got the spinning stars that shoot spikes at you.

18:44 - Wednesday, Aug. 24, 2005
way to go, cu
NightRide bought a little vehicle for on-campus rides. We parked it out in the open so people would see it and wonder what it was, and then see the name and know it was NightRide. It was good advertisement. Also, it was electric, non-gas-using, and no-emissions, doing its part to help the environment.
So how did CU students react to this little GEM?
They peed in it.
Every week, at the least.
Now we're using only regular cars again.

10:26 - Wednesday, Aug. 24, 2005
lots and lots of chocolate cake
The book was about a boy who matured in very regular, noticeable chunks. Every year there would be something more grown-up about him - an action or a reaction, a way of handling drunks and people with terrible tempers, or an ability to refrain from smacking his gum at the symphony, or in his brain, the withdrawing of thoughts like "all girls who wear cropped tops are sluts".
And every year the boy would congratulate himself on another step in his journey. It was a reassurance that he was moving steadily forward on into, and passing, adulthood. "Well, look at that," he would marvel after some encounter or another. "Last year, I would have threatened to sue that man who accidentally cut me with his belt buckle on the squeezing way through the escalator. Now, I only smiled and said not to worry. How remarkable. I've come a long way."
But every year, after lavishly congratulating himself (sometimes with a chocolate cake or two), he would look at everyone around him and wonder why they hadn't changed like he had. He had a great memory and would notice that friends of his who had whistled at passing women in the previous year still did it the next year. Every year, without fail, they would continue to be addicted to alcohol and cigarettes, borrow money without repaying it, steal ice cream sandwiches from the general store's freezer, have short tempers, refuse to admit they were wrong, and try to bum couches off everyone in sight. The boy noticed this and wondered why everyone else was so weak as to not even try to better themselves.
One year, the boy's maturity chunk came in the form of suddenly maturing enough to stop passing judgment on others. He spent the rest of his life in a beatific haze, hardly noticing how his lent money was never coming back, drunken friends kept puking on his couch, and how he kept having to apologize to irate women. It was a pretty sweet life. He often noted his brilliance in making that particular maturity move. With lots and lots of chocolate cake.


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