Chawkservation Archives

Daily thoughts of Chawk. Or weekly. Occasional thoughts of Chawk.

Leigh Walton and I discussed this one day during one of our many, many fire drills.
Wouldn't it be cool to be a monkey? I mean, sure, there're the obvious advantages, like having a prehensile tail, and just looking really cool. But looking deeper, the true beauty of being comes to light. First of all, you do whatever you want to do. You wanna sleep late? You sleep late. You wanna eat a banana? You eat it. And isn't that just a miracle food for monkeys? I'm thoroughly convinced that bananas are the perfect fruit. They taste good, they come in huge bunches, and they're pre-wrapped! You don't have to do anything to eat a banana. No washing, no skinning, no slicing. You just have to climb a tree, which is convenient because you're a monkey! But then you say, "Hey Chandler! Bananas aren't the only fruit with peels! You numbskull." Sure, but bananas have the best peel. It's so easy to open. Oranges are a pain in the ass to peel! And, as if that weren't enough, the peel of the banana can be used for comic high jinks! Which is fortunate because, if I were a monkey, comic high jinks would be my third favorite pass time, right after throwing poo and humping. But monkeys only do what they feel like doing, all the time. Ain't no one gonna make a monkey do nothing. Ain't no one gonna correct no monkey's grammar. Monkeys don't worry about cleaning the tree or getting a monkey job. And monkeys don't have to deal with girls, either. That alone makes them way cooler than guys. I've got a pretty nice life for a 15-year-old with a pretend rock band, but I'd trade it in an instant for the carefree vine swinging life of a lesser primate.

Went Jet Skiing today with my brother. I somehow ended up drifting alone in the middle of the Neuse river on an inner tube. We then went to a cookout where he beat me at 21 on the basketball court, and again at Ping Pong, though I think he was making up a lot of rules. He also beat me at Rummy, but, once again, I question the validity of his rules. While eating a bowl of Breyers Ice cream, he was describing to me how good it was, and he said something I thought very funny coming from him. He said it was like sex in a bowl.

Hey, guess what? I'm writing a movie. Me and my good friend Brendon. I've mentioned us making movies in the past, but they were just silly little projects, wacky sketches more suitable for a late night variety show. but this is a serious attempt at making a movie. We're working on the plot right now, and it looks promising. I'll keep posting updates somewhere.

I'm typing this during one of those rare moments when I would not enjoy eating fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. This feeling is fleeting, and occurs only when I've eaten more than my limit. It really ruins the experience. Instead of affectionate memories of gooey cookie bliss, I regard my recent past with only nausea. You'd think I'd learn. You'd think I'd catch on after a while. You'd think I'd know better than to gorge myself whenever I'm privelaged to an excess of cookies. An excess of cookies. That sounds like chemistry. You know, it's a lot like chemistry. I'm the solute, the cookies are the solvent, and my recognition of when I've reached my limit represents the temperature of the system. I start off thinking that I can down all the cookies, and that puts the saturation point around twenty. About number twelve I start thinking, "Whoa! I never should've had those last two cookies!" Suddenly, the saturation point drops to 10, and you end up with a super-saturated solution of Chandler and Cookies. And it makes me want to vomit. I think the whole vomitting process was never thought out that well. Whenever you need to vomit, you run to the bathroom. "Look guys, I'm feeling a little woozy. I'm gonna go stick my head in a toilet." It adds insult to injury! I bet thousands of people who never really had to spew end up doing it because there head is where most people put their arses. (I can say arse, right? I don't normally, but me and Leigh never really went over any profanity guidelines, so I thought I'd better not say ass) I think we should have clean flowery things to throw up in. Things that don't make you hurl. Like, I don't know, a waterfall. No, that might make you have to pee, and we're back where we started. I'll have to rethink that one. But for now, I'm going to get some more cookies.

Life has its little surprises. Last Thursday night I found out that I was going to Washington D.C last Friday after noon. Me and my mom and this guy she's seeing, his 8 year old son, his 2 teenage daughter's, and they're cousin, all three of the last babes. We rented an Astro van and drove there from New Bern, NC, stopping for a Frisco burger and later on peanut butter M & M's. We stayed at a friend's town house, right outside DC.

On Saturday, we went into the city to check out the monuments, the museums and other sites. They went through my personal favorite, the Art Museum, like it was a scavenger hunt; I didn't have time to really take in any of it. And the city was completely overrun by Boy Scouts. Apparently, they had some Jamboree going on nearby, and so you couldn't walk a foot without stepping on a kid with a neckerchief. It wasn't the first time I'd been to the city, but I had my first ride on a metro. I like it. You can meet cool people. This baby was looking at me, so I started making it laugh. Serena got a candid shot of me with my fingers in my mouth. The baby got bored after a while, and that hurt my self esteem. The worst part was going to bed, because I would lie inches from these scantily clad babes, but also inches away from their dad/uncle. Who snored like a duck. Not in the manner of a duck, but rather his snore reminded me of the sound a duck makes.

On Sunday we went to King's Dominion. The only really memorable part of this visit was the ride on the new Hypersonic roller coaster, and the events leading up to it. We waited in line for, I'm not kidding, three hours to go on this ride, not because we REALLY wanted to ride it, but rather because we weren't going to have waited a half hour for nothing, nor an hour, nor two hours. It wouldn't have taken so long if the damn thing didn't keep breaking down. We didn't leave when it did because we thought everyone else would, and we'd be first in line. They didn't, so I tried to entice them to, shouting out things to the line that thoroughly embarrassed my companions. There was this officer there who's job was, I believe, solely to keep people from sitting on the top bar of the rail while waiting. He didn't have a gun, or even a stick. Only a whistle. This guy was a step down from a mall cop. I thought he was a moron, whose power had gone to his head. In the line, I thought of all of these wonderful improvements for the park that I intend to write down and send to them someday. My best idea was to replace the current "line" system with a roller coaster lounge. Instead of waiting in the sun on the concrete, you'd go into a large room full of couches and minibars and take a number. Announcements would be made such as "Now Loading G8," and they could sell you drinks and even meals while you waited. At the prices they sell food, they could have the lounge paid for after two sodas and a cotton candy. And I thought they should have lounge singer. I liked this idea so much I started doing it, until I thought the faces of my comrades were sufficiently crimson. But I think we got a lot of bonding done in that line. By the time we got on the coaster, we all thought each other to be morons. And while I wouldn't say it was worth the three hour wait, the ride was possibly the most exciting 17 seconds of my life. Serena bought a key chain of the picture of us on it. My teeth look really big. Remind me later to tell you the story about the roller coaster picture we got at Busch Gardens.

And so we drove home and I was in this jolly stupor that I get in when my lack of sleep catches up with me. Jolly stupors are always fun. We talked about something deep, but I wasn't really into that as much as I was into how cute the girl next to me looks when she's tired. I can get very romantic in my stupors. Or just huggy really. If taking marijuana is anything like having a jolly stupor, then I have new found sympathy for pot heads. But that's about all that happened. Good times.

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