Like a Twitter cluster fuck

I don't use twitter, and I love the term cluster fuck.  It's beautiful outside, and when I say beautiful I mean sun out and painting the southern sky.  I mean the breeze of an equinox blowing over remnants of snow from a week ago.  I mean nature's exotic dancers at work: the plants begin to shed dead, brown, dry, crusty reminders of fall and reveal incredibly matched sets of underroos.  Green grass is like, what I presume to be, an Irishman looking at his favorite bonnie lass in only the least clothing possible, on St. Patty's day. And he's drunk.  And somehow potatoes and the Catholic church are involved.  I went for the racist motherload there, and I am excused since my ethnic heritage is like a pound puppy's.  I am not a pagan/wiccan/whatever the accepted vernacular is for it these days, but I see very easily the comparisons drawn between earth and woman.  The fertility in my nostrils is driving my hypothalamus insane.  I swore around mid-January that I was suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder.  While I am a psychology student, well aware of the truth in such disorders, I had always thought myself above such easily cognitively conquerable afflictions.  Turns out I was wrong, and it's not just easy to step out of.  I lost all kinds of pleasurable drives: food, sex, laughs.  But right now, I am about to go gorge myself on clamburgers (that's my new favorite vaginal euphemism) and fried food.  Gawd almighty the spring serves an incredible purpose.  Maybe I should sacrifice a goat and dance around naked in the back yard like our Druid friends. On the twitter cluster side of things, some thoughts: When there are double doors, and you walk squarely out of the locked one, do you also feel like a horse's ass? Sometimes when I am extremely riled up, mad or horny or excited, it helps me to put the biggest knuckle of my index finger in between my teeth and bend it as I bite down.  Maybe it's like a pussy version of cutting, the pain a way to control and express inner conflict, or maybe I'm a freak.  Lastly, when you meet someone for the first time, do you feel like you're in a job interview? I always get the following questions, usually in this order: Where are you from, What's your major, What do you plan to do with that degree, Are you in a frat (sorority girls love that one).  I don't get why those questions are accepted as the most pressing issues worthy of being noted by a stranger.  If I were a girl, meeting potential mates, I would think better questions would be things like Ever been arrested for a sexually violent crime? Do you drink to the point of belligerence? Is your car reliable? Do you want to just have sex and skip the bull shit and hurt feelings?

Is that just too simple, or am I missing something

Dateline Special

Sometimes I walk into a room, an establishment, a party, or the like and I think, "This looks like the opening segment for a news magazine on TV."  More often than not, it's the sparsely populated dance floor that sparks it.  Combine that with guys wearing too much hair product, too much cologne, white adidas below stonewashed jeans; in addition to girls who've spent too long trying to change the color of their skin through UV bulbs and "natural" foundation sporting their crispy hair cigarette stained fingernails; all topped off with the incredible lights and sounds of overplayed ass-shaking hits.  Last night I was honored enough to babysit a friend as he got his drunk on, so we went to the only club in this entire city.  I was not disappointed to see exactly what I expected.  Some things I find socially intriguing: what are men supposed to do if they aren't dancing with a girl? Do we dance (which, if you weren't a member of Step Up 2, you probably shouldn't be doing all alone) and wait for a girl to come around? And when they do happen upon us,  we can't really ask to dance, but I perceive it as rude to just begin grinding up on some girl.  And when girls are dancing in groups with their cells in one hand and drinks in the other, it's impressive how well they can protect one of the members from an intruding penis.  The seamless choreography keeping the female covey free from intrusion was just astounding.  Even more impressive is how quickly people want to put their mouth on a stranger.  The end of the night approaches, leveraging people out of their shells.  Napkins and cell phones come out, grabbing numbers of people you'll never call.  It's incredibly predictable, and a little gross.  Maybe gross because it seems so seedy to me.