Tagged: school


Dear Planet Earth,


That’s how he greeted me the last time he came to my cell. He was all smiles as he sauntered in, sat at the table and crossed his legs.

“My name is Perry. I guess you could call me that if ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’ feels too weird. It would feel weird to me.”

I laid on my cot, doing my best to hide the old book he gave me, A History of the Inheritors, behind my head. I didn’t want him to know I was reading it, that I’ve been reading it nonstop since I got it in the vain hope of finding some worthwhile reason to abandon family, friends, and species.

I’m tempted to not write anything. He’s watching. He’s reading this blog right now and there’s nothing I can do to stop him from learning about me besides staring at a blank wall all day.

There’s no use in trying to hide anything now. So, if you are reading this, Perry — and I know you are — screw you. Screw you for walking out on your wife and child. Screw you for kidnapping me multiple times. Screw you for selling out humanity to the mole people.

“Is there something you wanna say, little guy?” he asked me last time. His smile was stone, unperturbed by even my most fiery glares.

“I’d hate to have been you in middle school, Perry Panus.”

He laughed — more than I’d like for him to have laughed. He stood up to go with a painful grunt and said, “Well, I guess things don’t get more real than that.”

Screw you.



Dear Planet Earth,

We drove all through the night, heading in a single direction to find our missing companions. It was a long shot, even by global mole men invasion standards.

We started having real conversations about what could have happened. Sure, mole people could have kidnapped them, but why? Why leave us? Why use ninja-like skills to take everything but my broken walkie talkie, but keep us alive? Did our friends leave on their own? It seemed like we were all getting along just hunky dory, all things considered. Yeah, the army guys made all the major decisions, but no one seemed to complain about it.

The word “tyranny” came up. Along with “abandoned,” “suicide,” “spy.” “Rapture.”

I was squashed in the back seat next to Maria. Our bare arms touched each other several times during the bumpy trek, and I felt like I was back in middle school, wondering whether the contact bothered or excited her. Portly Private Linares crushed me on the other side. He didn’t smell nearly as good.

Then we saw it — 90 to 100 miles away on the horizon. The rising sun illuminated its silhouette, instilling an otherworldliness that it already had enough of on its own. Our first Californian drill.


Dear Planet Earth,

I think I’m in love. Some say opposites attract, some say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I say full scale invasions of our planet lead to strong, monogamous relationships.

Diana works at the front desk here at the Bellagio. Or at least she’s pretending to. She was a sophomore at UNLV (University of Nevada, Las Vegas) until the tremors hit and they decided to cancel classes indefinitely. With nothing to do, my ambitious amour decided to fulfill her lifelong dream of working at one of the ritziest hotels in Las Vegas. She hired herself since most of the staff had already abandoned their lives here to flee west. This is pretty much how I and, according to Diana, countless other young vagabonds scored free hotel rooms (though strangely enough, not a single homeless person has tried).

But I’m getting off point here. The point is I’m in love. Diana Sunday is smart, funny, and has tits the size of my id. She’s everything I’ve imagined college girls to be. Even her name sounds cultured, right out of a James Bond film.

We’ve spent the past two days together and tomorrow we’re planning to trek outside the city to investigate that strange object I took a picture of the other day. She’s betting me $500 in spa credit that it’s an alien spaceship, but I’m starting to lean towards something more terroristy. This isn’t exactly how I pictured my first date with a girl would be.

Ready to Blue Myself

Dear Planet Earth,

Things are actually starting to look up today.  My math teacher said he’d let me do some extra credit work to bring up my grade and Arrested Development is coming back.  Our long national nightmare is at an end, people.

Apparently, the powers that be realized that they made a huge mistake and acted too chicken (cawk-ka-cawk-ka-cawk-ka-kaw!) in giving the show it’s final countdown.  If you were able to understand all of those references, you’re an even bigger nerd than me.

We can finally look forward to ten new episodes and a movie.  Ho!  In 2013.  Oh. . .  Well, here’s something to tie us over until we can finally say “anyong” once more to television’s most situational situational comedy.

That’s almost enough to make you forget about psychotic parents and Ugandan earthquakes.

Procrastination 101

Dear Planet Earth,

It’s been a couple of days now.  I wish I had more to blog about than the earthquake in Uganda and how the mainstream news is basically ignoring it, but I need something to distract me from Earth Science homework and college essays.

I can’t understand why my school forces seniors to take science classes anyway.  I don’t want to sound like a Republican presidential candidate here, but there has to be more valuable uses for our time besides learning the most basics concepts of ideas that change every ten years.  We really know so little about the universe–it’s origin, it’s future–even our own planet’s ocean floors continue to elude us and cause us to make all sorts of crazy theories.  So, for forty-five minutes a day, I could learn a lot more applicable information from say, a home ec class or even just a study hall class.

There’s my two cents.  I guess it doesn’t have a lot to do with Uganda.

Beneath Average

Dear Planet Earth,

I guess it would make sense to explain the title of our little experiment here.  I got my first midterm report card of the year last week and was upset (or the closest you can get to “upset” when it comes to these trivial things) to see some comments made by some of my teachers.  They all echoed the same points about a lack of motivation, not willing to go the extra step, yadda, yadda, yadda.  The one that really got to me though said that my overall performance in class was “beneath average.”  Fucking Mr. Plouthem.

First of all, the phrase should be “below average,” for any of you who haven’t paid attention to achievement-descriptive terms that have been used for the past 200 years, most notably in schools.  Second, what word in the English language is more subjective than “average” (besides, perhaps “subjective”)?  What is average?  Who decides which social mores of our civilization contribute to or harm the whole of humanity?  Would my bland subservience to educators be perceived as “lazy” in Soviet Russia?  Would my doodling during Calculus (a subject that a college-bound liberal arts student needs why?) be seen as anything but “creativity” in the idealized 22nd century classroom promoting hands-on learning?

Whew.  Now that I read back on that, it all sounds a little self-righteous, doesn’t it?  Too many rhetorical questions.  But I needed to get that off my chest, and I need to keep exploring the idea of what is “beneath average.”  If that makes any sense.