Playing Catch Up

What does it, blogosphere? Sir Marcus here. It's been almost two whole weeks since we last spoke, which, compared to the infrequency with which we usually get together, means I'm basically smothering you guys at this point. I do it because I care, people.

As you might imagine, the embarrassing amount of free time I've recently found myself with lends itself to all kinds of shenanigans and half-baked ideas for how to remedy this issue. I fancy myself as something of a whimsical vagabond; a roving beatnik with the freedom to come and go as I please, but my somewhat limited resources have hamstrung me from fully exploiting said liberties. It's hard in these streets, I do declare. Fortunately for me, the hubbub of my social universe - the Mizzou Student Center - is easily accessible, giving me ample opportunity to sit around people of my age, drink them in, and collect delightful little scraps to share with you all. The following are apart of the aggregation of developments over the past few weeks:

Billy Rays Cyrus gets you, Taz.

- I spent the last few weeks on the #WorkStruggle watching my coworker - we'll call him Taz - in his uphill battle for the attention from a certain girl that was, more or less, completely oblivious to his charms. Seeing him strive largely unnoticed, week in and week out, for this girl's affections brought about in me a tinge of familiarity that made me shudder and laugh as only one who had been there could. I'm usually that guy, so I knew exactly what he was experiencing - the uncertainty of whether or not his effort would be reciprocated or even noticed, and the muted sense of excitement over even the most benign shows of acknowledgment. It was like looking into a slightly shorter, fairer-skinned mirror. He's admitted to being willing to play the waiting game with her, which is good because whether she eventually comes around or she lets him down easily, both are good for the achy breaky heart.

- One place besides the MU Student Center that I happen to frequent is the Plasma Center downtown. I spoke recently of how bizarre a place it can be, and nothing about that has changed. Make no mistake about it, blogomaniacs - you WILL stare the depths of society right in the eye at your local plasma donation center. You haven't regretted meeting this many people since that time your "old-fashioned" grandfather took you along to his lodge clubhouse that doubled as his KKK meeting place.

In a Venn Diagram, the two subsets would be "normal college-aged students" and "weird Columbia townies who bug the shit out of normal, college-aged students," with their intersection being "people who go to the plasma center." Unfortunately, putting up with said weirdos is a necessary evil in our volunteering for free money. My biggest concern, besides the fact that one of these townies might try to talk to me, is that to the naked untrained eye, we would all look the same to someone who just saw us in passing. The fact that someone would even mistakenly associate me with a grown-ass man in his 40's wearing a wife beater as a regular shirt and with his hair in braids is a truly harrowing thought to me. Grown men wearing cornrows is one of those things that one shouldn't need to be told is wrong, much like beastiality or one clicking the "like" option ON THEIR OWN DAMN FACEBOOK STATUS (seriously, my crusade against brazen acts of self-indulgence like this will never end).

A good ex-husband is neither seen nor heard. 

- One good thing about frequenting the Plasma Center however is that it allows me to see and catch up with Miss Frizzle, who works there. As one might imagine, we don't talk nearly as much now as we did when we lived together, so twice a week, we re-convene and get to be pretentious with one another as we express our disappointment in the world of dimwits around us. This past week, she was telling me about how her ex-husband seems to be popping up around her much more often these days. This man has this awful, unbelievably rude habit of still talking to her, and he's recently complemented that with sketchy, borderline stalker behavior. It's always a joy to hear a "mysterious ex-husband" story from her, because I'm detached enough from the situation where I don't know him, but I'm close enough to get her firsthand account of his tomfoolery. Sometimes, he'll just show up and give plasma like a normal person, but other times, he'll step up his game. We're talking about a fella that isn't above to running up behind you outside your place of work and throwing a bag of gifts at your feet and scurrying away like a squirrel. She says that she recently went on a date with a guy and over the course of the evening, saw Mr. Ex-Husband at THREE SEPARATE PLACES. Classic mixup. Who amongst us hasn't had this conversation: "Oh HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY there! What a coincidence! I didn't see you come in when I followed you - er, got hungry for the exact same dessert that you did after we ate the same dinner. What's that? You're going back to your place tonight? Weird, so was I..."

- You guys know those tennis shoes with the skate wheels built into them? I believe they're called "Heelys?" I shit thee not, I saw a grown man cruising around the Student Center in them. I staunchly believe that, much like one-piece bathing suits, there are a select few people that should be wearing these, a subset that "Adult Male" is decidedly NOT apart of. I will not argue this point. At least not until a dong pocket is installed in the bathing suit.

Why love your kids when you can just get them Heelys?

But adults, much less men, shouldn't wear Heelys either, and this guy violated the hell out of that law. You've never seen a law so violated. But to see him that day, you wouldn't know that he was committing an egregious crime against fashion and humanity. He looked so easy and carefree, like the world was his skating rink. He was practically gliding across the floor, which stands to reason, as I imagine people are much lighter without all of that pesky dignity weighing them down.

- Speaking of law violations, one of the most widely-known tenets of Man Law is that guys don't crowd the space of other guys in public places. This applies, first and foremost, to the urinals in a public restroom - girls hate it when you touch them with hands stained with someone else's pee - but that doesn't mean that something as simple as sitting in a lobby gets a free pass. Naw buddy. Whenever I'm out and I sit down somewhere, there never fails to be some McAsshole who unabashedly disregards Man Law and parks his behind right next to me, regardless of open seats being available all around us. This has been happening to me with startling frequency lately, and I need to understand why and when these guys feel that they are above Man Law. Certain things should be coded into our DNA, and for guys, some aspects of Man Law should be included. Come on, fellas; IS NOTHING SACRED? If you had miles of open road ahead of you on a freeway, would you drive side by side with the car in the next lane? Get your heads out of your asses; we're trying to have a decent society here.

Oh, the agility. Came THISCLOSE to not catching the butterfly.

- I have tentatively decided to try out for the Columbia Falcons semi-pro football team because honestly, I miss it more every time I watch football. Having not played organized football since high school (and the term "played" is stretched to pretty generous limits even there), I figured that 23 was the perfect time to make my long-awaited (by no one) comeback. Consequently, I will begin training and whipping this body into shape in the next few weeks in preparation for February's tryouts. By the time those roll around, I should be in good enough shape to resume my idling around the house again for the day after tryouts. Can't wait to be a former football player again.

*******

Well kids, that's enough for now. I can't tell you how fun that was. Get used to hearing from me a little more often as I try to not to be inundated with all of this free time. So let's not wait so long to get together again, mmmmmmmmmmkay? Anyways, until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams, signing off...

Yall take care and stay classy out there.