Saturday, October 28, 2006

Action

The world does not like film students. Out of every single major offered at every single college, I cannot find one that is met with more disgust than being a film student. This happens for a few reasons. First off, we're going to head into a field with little to no hope of actually obtaining employment, let alone writing/directing/editing. Secondly, there are a lot of us who are elitist snobs, casting down from mountain high their wisdom that anything in wide release is worthless; the only way to view film is as an art and no one must see it. Finally, we are taking what was designed to be an entertainment medium and scrupulously analyze it, bit-by-bit, pissing off all of your friends who you go with. When you say, "that's horrible framing," you'll get a comment of "just shut the fuck up and watch it."

There is an almost innate longing to pick movies apart not because you want to, but because your view of movies is forever altered. I just watched Good Will Hunting and instead of discussing the scene where Matt Damon and Robin Williams have their first breakthrough discussion, I was telling my roommate Zack about how the director (Gus van Zant) is constantly toying with the 180 rule, even in the shot. This prompted a small but audible sigh from the other roommate Ben, who might not have even realized I get it. Ok, I'm sorry, it's just that I analyze these situations.

In screen writing class, we are learning all of the finer points of a script, such as how characters are developed, what a proper character arc is, etc. A lot of stuff that most of you couldn't care less about. The biggest lesson we are taught is to "show but not tell." This rule is to make the read more interesting. Instead of saying "Billy's estranged with his father and is sad about it," you would write some action like "Billy walks in to his Mom's house and stares at a picture of his family, before knocking the frame over and walking away." Show, but don't tell. You get the idea that something isn't right, which is much more interesting than the mother having a line of, "How long has it been since you shut your father out because he didn't support you enough?"

It is a problem to scrutinize in a theater, but what is it when you start to examine life just as thoroughly? There's a new movie coming out called Stranger Than Fiction where Will Ferrell's character is a character in a book being written by Emma Thompson's character. Will goes to Dustin Hoffman's character for advice, and he suggests trying to determine whether or not his life is a comedy or a drama (drama obviously having more propensity for an unhappy ending). I find myself asking the same questions.

If I make a comment about a couple of black guys in giant winter coats when it isn't that cold out crashing a party full of white people, and I say "well, that's odd," what does that say about me? Well, I could be a middle-to-upper class white suburban teenager who has no idea what it's like in the real world. I could very easily be so sheltered that I only understand what's on TV or in rap music and stereotype every black person as a criminal, a thief, a crook. Inherently I am racist, be it from my upbringing or otherwise, and I will always be this way. The first thought will always be negative.

Or

I could be a kid from Brooklyn who's seen one too many robberies in his life. He has a mother in Manhattan and a deadbeat father who can't take care of himself, let alone his teenage son, and sees both sides of the world as easily as flipping a coin. He runs with the wrong crowd when he has to, and he separates himself while eating dinner on the Upper West Side. But no matter where he is, he is always vigilant, keeping one eye out, because he doesn't want to be taken like his pal Brian did.

Or

He's just a dumb schmuck kid who was raised by a mother who was brought up when New York City was a cesspool. The place that we see characterized in movies now, go to Times Square, and think that it was all made up. It's the kind of upbringing where the city is a scary place until recently, and you're taught to protect yourself. Always carry your wallet in your front pocket unless you want to be mugged. Never take money out in public. Always stash some cash somewhere else on you, where it wouldn't be found (like your sock, you sickos), just in case. Maybe you have a nice amount of black friends, and you know stereotypes don't hold true all the time. Maybe you make a comment about your upbringing, about your perceived reality and how you're brought up, and you're looked at as a racist asshole.

The important thing when writing is to not worry about how your script is perceived. You cannot control what the audience reacts to. If they think a plot line is too disparate, that they don't understand how a kid could be selling drugs in 7th grade, that is not your fault. If they cannot grasp the abstract ideas or flowery language that is flying out of your character's mouth a mile a minute, it's not your fault. You have a story tell, and you tell it to the best of your abilities, and let them sort out the meaning. A lot of times, what you expected them to think never happens, what you put on the page doesn't translate to the screen. There are peices of dialogue that are inherently funny in a dark comedy that some people don't understand. Why are you laughing at a time like this? Have you no decency?

So what is my life, a comedy or a drama? It's the question that I posed but never answered. My script, my movie, my being is up to interpretation, obviously. But instead of scrutinizing everything ("is she ordering a plain hamburger because she's boring, or is it because she was never given choices while she grew up...oh god, did someone sexually abuse her?!") and make myself go crazy, I think it's time to sit back, get some popcorn, and laugh. I hear the first act is pretty funny, the second is full of melodrama that goes nowhere, and the third act is...well...a surprise.

But the acting sucks.

Monday, October 16, 2006

The Arctic Monkeys Rule

Racial profiling his hit the streets of Boston. Commonwealth Avenue, a main strip in Boston which contains mostly all of my campus, contains yet another instance of racial discrimination stemming only from one's color. Jewish kids are sent out into the gentile masses to try and smoke out their fellow Jews. How is this done? Simply by looking, they have to distinguish who they could pester and offer a corn stalk to. Why can they get away with racial profiling while no one else can, let alone in matters dealing with national security? If you read a white man wrote this blog before reading this, wouldn't you expect the classy, highbrow comedy you are currently enjoying (ps boobies lol). I'm not saying that racial profiling is wrong--in fact, in 98.5% of cases, it's 100% correct. Can't beat those numbers folks. In fact, we should do it more. It's as American as apple pie and silly race riots.

Also, using children to give things away on the street should be illegal. not because you are essentially whoring out children to do work that is meant for an adult, but because it isn't fair to those who pass by. You can't easily ignore and rudely walk past children who are shilling goods. I have no problem being Rick Rude to brainwashed 20-year-olds in an economic and political cult, but seeing devout Jewish children makes it harder. Mostly because they have a sad face, and I can't call them "douche bags," since they aren't old enough to understand that I just slighted their character.

Speaking of racial profiling, I was watching the GAS network on cable and enjoying the show GUTS, which pits 3 early-teens against one another in a battery of physical competitions, all culminating in a climb up the agro-crag, a large mountainous structure with paper Mache rocks and glitter. One of my friends back home (who I cannot remember) saw something very odd in how the kids are cast. I forget who it is, so I will claim complete credit for the idea. The blue kid is always a blonde, blue-eyed white male, red is a brunette white girl, and the purple child is always a minority, usually African-American with a fade (it was filmed in 1993 or so). They will sometimes switch it up - I've seen the All Aryan Challenge and I've seen these same kinds of kids with switched up colors as if we wouldn't pick up on their inherent racism. Doesn't matter though, as the black kid always wins anyway.

Geese do not step like Nazis. I'm shocked that they haven't sued based on descrimination yet. Do you think they were refused representations just because they are aquatic birds? Someone has to be outraged about this. But not me. I hate those dirty, lazy, no good Wingers.

For all of the hubbub about vampires recently, there is a fatal flaw in their attempt to take over the world. In documentaries such as Blade, Underworld, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, vampires (also referred to as "vamps") feed off of the living, killing their food source and also creating another vampire after the blood is sucked dry. This creates a mathematical formula that says that for every 1 vampire to live, 1 food source must die, and therefore 1 vampire--who compete for the same finite food source as the vampire that sired him or her--is created. Thus, each time a vampire feeds, it lessens the amount of available food by 200%, while also creating another competitor for a decreasing food supply. Vampires are evolutionary inept and act in a fashion that is completely detrimental to its own existence. Why do we worry? Eventually they will convert their entire food supply into competition and die off.

There is also the various vampire side effects that do not lend to a positive long-term plan for the creatures. If they walk into the sun, the universal life force for all things on Earth, they die. They can only use the planet for half of the day. That is just wasteful. If they happen to walk by a vegetable aisle during the day, they can have their skin burnt if they mistake garlic for onions. Vampires are simply not built to last; they are a flash in the proverbial pan. The same goes for zombies, whose thirst for human brains will eventually lead to their downfall. Werewolves, on the other hand, are simply animals, and therefore scare the bejesus out of me.

Atmosphere has a song called "I'm Always Coming Back Home To You," and in point of the song, Slug--the MC-- says, "It was a .38, the poor man's machete." Isn't that poor man's machete a butter knife or something? I don't think you can say something is a poor man's anything if it is in fact more costly than what you are comparing it to. He should be shot with a poor man's Nerf gun.

I have coined a new term, to go with Unknowing Asshole and my bread and butter, That Guy (which I didn't create, but will ride to money on that train): Social Landmine. Today I was walking through the street and saw a girl who, in passing, politely smiled hello to me. It took a second to remember who she was. Ah yes, she was the one who was rubbing and groping me while everyone was all wasty-waste on Friday night. Faaaaantastic. I have realized now that, especially after this weekend, there are tiny little explosions waiting to take me down, and there is no way that I can track them. At any moment, I could step on...a Social Landmine(c).

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Venom

I absolutely adore my readers. This blog started out as nothing more than a vehicle for me to keep writing, to hone my skills, and to generally get my own feelings and emotions out (writing has always been a catharsis). Of course, I'm also sort of self-centered--blame the only child syndrome--so I'd nudge different people to check it out. Over time it has snowballed to have a great deal of readers, more than I could ever imagine. Hell, people I don't know check this out. I've been told that I help them to voice different feelings that they had, and that in some small way it might help them deal with their problems.

Such an issue was discussed in the previous post, entitled, "In Rumination." While in the shower, I thought about how great things have been in Boston, and naturally looked back to New Jersey, and one of the more emotionally taxing moments of my life, the break up with my then girlfriend. It has been a theme I have discussed for the past 6 or so months since it has happened, mostly because I write what's on my mind. Obviously, it's been hovering around up there. These posts were not meant to win her back, to slight her in any way, or to bring attention to myself for a pity party. I know a lot of friends who have gone through similar situations, including one who was going through a messy break up around the same time as I was, and felt that it would be read and if not appreciated, then understood. If you want to write something for people to read, having it be relatable is a very easy way to get that accomplished. Those posts can be found in chronological order, from break up to reaction to pathetic depression and finally to a reflection on the events.

I do have a certain responsibility with this blog, since I do write about myself, and there are a lot of other people in my life that get written up here. I understand that there is a certain amount of professionalism in this sophomoric production I run, and try to uphold it as best as I can. Over the last year plus, I believe I have done a good job with it. Once, I had to write a disclaimer, which I refuse to write again (hence my pretty little link). I'm a selfish bloke - this blog is about me, my thoughts, and is first and foremost about me. If you no one ever read it again, it would continue, much like it would right now. Although I'm sure I'd throw in more ethnic jokes.

What brings this on, you ask yourself? Well, I came home from my 6:30-9 hell of a discussion (we talk about a single French film for two and a half yours) to see that I got a comment on the blog. What I see is this: wow.. thats touching NOT.. i feel there is no need to post your and your partners sex life on this blog. it's rude and you should consider the other person feelings, and NO this is not her. I encourage people to leave me comments (to the point where it's pleading and thoroughly embarrassing for everyone involved), but every now and then there is a special comment that raises my ire. I have absolutely no problem with someone not liking my stuff, but this crosses a few lines. Let's break this down, shall we?

wow.. thats touching NOT
Your grammar skills are in serious need of help. "Wow...that's touching...NOT," while being incredibly juvenile and ridiculous in any manner of conversation is at least now in some semblance of proper English. Right off the bat, we know it’s a high school girl. Also, are you ripping off Borat? For the record, a good number of people said it was touching, so you're totally rite...NOT

i feel there is no need to post your and your partners sex life on this blog.
Do I even need to hit on the grammar again? I hope your and your teacher's plans involve comprehension of the English language. I try, so should you, dammit. This part surprised me more than anything, since I thought the comment was about one of the various other stories that go into almost horrifying detail of my sexual life (you can find them pretty easily on here - my newly ordained "friends" here at BU did and read the story aloud to anyone walking by our Student Union). This was shallow, intentionally. I went into no sexual details. If you think the throwaway humor at the end to break up how serious the post was from my normal writings was going too far, well, you should have seen what I had before I toned it down. I do think it's cute that he or she (she) tried to make themselves look more intelligent by wording it like he or she (she) did.

it's rude and you should consider the other person feelings, and NO this is not her.
An apostrophe! Goodness. What does the other person feelings have to do with this? She once loved me? What, is she offended by this? I'm ever so sorry other person for simply relaying facts on my blog. You have my sincerest apologies. What is being rude about the situation? Hell, I thought I was being poignant, not puckish. I enjoy the emphasis on the no, which really just makes it look like it is the other person writings.

I could really care less who wrote this stanza that makes 50 Cent look like Billy Shakespeare. The issue here is a very simple one: if you don't like it, don't read it, stupid. It's very easy to do. Here are a few tips: when on a computer, don't go to kingmanton.blogspot.com. It won't sneak up on you in the night, or be sprawled across the Garden State Parkway as you pass in your car, nor is it on your Summer Reading list. Don't come back. I don't want you here. You probably need a dictionary to understand that I just called you ignorant for 300 or so words. Take your little crusade to someone who really would be hurt.

And thank you very much for giving me something to write about! I enjoy it when a gift is handed to me and little effort is needed. You lucky people will be getting another post that would be in BU's The Source weekly newspaper, if it exists still....

Monday, October 09, 2006

A Rumination

I don't necessarily miss her. No, for all intents and purposes the "her" isn't merely as important as the "what." She is not disposable--not by any means--but she is merely the carrier, the conductor through which feelings and emotion are pumped. Relatively speaking, I loved the vessel while I was really in love with the meaning. I don't miss her eyes, their shape, their color, nearly as much as I miss what shined through them. While she was peering into me, she didn't know how that same mechanism left her open to be viewed as well. I miss what shined behind the retina, a look of trust, of care, of satisfaction. I don't miss her body nearly as much as I miss how it would curl up on mine, giving her an heir of protection while giving myself an heir of invincibility. She knew she was safe, and I knew nothing could harm her because I was there. I don't miss our conversations, as the words usually were trite or coated in more cheese than The Notebook. What lingers on is the sincerity in those words. The words "I love you" can be uttered by anyone for any reason, but not with the same passion and vigor that she said them with. I miss the sincerity behind those words. I don't miss the sex...well.... Ok, there are always exceptions to the rules. What do I miss, however, is what it stood for. No longer was it an arbitrary joining of two people in a sustained (for however long) act of mutual selfishness, a temporary physical addiction fed, but the very material of feeling. I miss the palpability of love. Most of all, I miss the "us against the world" philosophy, no matter how false it was. We were together, and nothing could break us apart, not from the sky, the clouds, the ground, anything. For some fleeting moments in time, we were an impenetrable fortress. I miss the security, the false sense of unending continuity, how the term "forever" could be so skewed beyond any rational thought would allow, but you let it slide. I miss believing in miracles. No longer do I miss her, but everything that came with her.

...and the effortless sex. That's definitely a biggie.

No Eye In Sex

For as long as I can remember I have been a flirt. For seemingly just as long, I have realized the futility in which I flirt, nabbing only about 5% of the girls with my sweet talk. In a baseball equivalent, I'm batting post season A-Rod (this is the most painful joke I have ever written). There are many ways in which I've flirted, from quirky letters to instant messages to a girl's away message, even to the occasional self-deprecating joke. One form of flirting that I never mastered--let alone really knew existed--was using eye contact.

It is something that always eluded me. For example, I thought a few girls fancied me in my US History class sophomore year, but I fully believe it was because a squirrel would scamper about just outside the windows with were situated to my right. I also took bored, blank stares as signs of affection, leading to many an awkward conversation at a party. "Oh, you're seeing him? Wait, you're not seeing him, just having sex with him? I see.... Yeah, yeah that squirrel is nutty. No, I didn't say that intentionally."

In any class since I started going to school, I have always passed idle time by looking at the most attractive girl(s) in the class. It usually wasn't about making eyes with someone, or trying to get her attention. If anything, it was a stupid game to see if I could get the same reaction. I'm sure most of the time it was a look of "why are you still looking at me, you creep?" but it was a look nonetheless. It was something to keep me going while I was falling asleep based on the subject matter or I was just bored from the endless droning of my classmates who couldn't understand Hamlet (not to say I'm above anyone, but jesus people, it's still English they're speaking).

This eye contact game I always thought was just my own stupid way to pass time. I was recently having lunch with reader/friend (redundant?) Westie, who was bragging about a relationship she has created with a boy in her class, based solely on stolen looks and quick glances. "This kid and I have eye sex," was her direct quote, but I feel that "eye sex" is an extremely awkward term to be kicked about. It is unusual to compare the sensual, discreet act of sexual intercourse with arbitrary eye movements. If they were more alike, I would probably get laid more. But alas, it's simply not as easy as looking at someone else directly in the gateways to the soul, so "eye sex" shall be stricken from the rest of this entry.

Never before did I realize that the girl might actually have something invested in this process, this sport of mine. I always thought it was action without consequence, nothing to note in the long run. Apparently, I am wrong. Not only is it important, but it can be a heavily influential device before flirting more. This was lost on me. After some meditation on the subject, I have thought of various places in which I have played my staring game and what the rules of the game are, along with pros and cons.

It is impossible to do anything in a large lecture hall. The numbers are absolutely staggering (upwards to 300+ other apathetic students and 10+ dorks who are absolutely enthralled) and do not lend itself to something as precise as eye contact. At any time you could think some girl has been staring you down the entire lecture before you hear someone yell her name from five rows behind and then see her react while you feel like an ass. The same goes for the opposite end, as your look at someone from the opposite sex could go through about seven rows of various guys and girls, making your focused beam of interest be refracted like sunlight through a cloudy sky, spreading your stare on to tons of the same sex and generally unsavory people. Bottom line is, unless they are down your row and you can bet that a single person will understand what you're doing, just don't do it. And avoid looking at someone of your own sex; cause if you make eye contact with them they'll make it with you and it will be awkward for everyone involved. Unless, of course, you're gay. I have no joke to follow that statement, for it is simply a truism.

Small lectures (30-50 people) is less awkward, but more difficult. For example, if you're sitting in the front row, you have absolutely no game. There is no smooth way to turn around and look at someone without being incredibly creepy. You cannot pass off "oh, I was just looking randomly to my left and Oh hello there!" No, you're very deliberately turning around and eyeing off, "I think you're pretty and might look good as a rug," while you strangely stroke your pet poodle. If you want to successfully attempt this, get as far up and diagonally across from the target as possible. Even doing this does not guarantee victory, but dammit, at least you have a shot. Move out, soldier (and remember to blink).

Classrooms are the preferred field of play. There are rows of desks and not enough people to really get in your way. Now you can very deliberately have your eye wander before finding the person you want to look at, seemingly as if it was one big coincidence. Be wary of people blindly staring in to space. This can be achieved by darting your eyes back and forth between the subject and something else, because if they don't react to that weirdo motion, they aren't going to react to a football being thrown at her face, Marsha style. Don't get any false confidence from ole' Spacey. Also, be sure to not stare too much, because that would make the opposite more apt to call the police than to call your cell phone. I cannot stress enough how thin a line it is before creepy stalking and harmless looking. Believe me. I can't come within 100 feet of an elementary school

...again.

There is one flaw to the classroom situation, and it is probably the most distracting and troublesome formation of the bunch: sitting in a circle. In this formation, everyone is laid out in either your frontal view or peripheral, and there is no escaping the looks from everywhere. I'm in a discussion now where we go into a circle, and the room is filled with eight males and around twenty females. Of the eight males, four are gay, one is quiet and keeps to himself and doesn't seem to have a firm grasp on English, and the other two aren't fit to be extras in movies about teenagers. That leaves me the alpha male. This is not a point of pride. I'm getting eye-raped from all angles, mostly by people I wouldn't make contact with; visually or otherwise. This also leads to the problem of me checking out who is checking ME out, giving them the false impression of reciprocity. My vision line in that class now looks like this (with - being the eye line): ___/ \____~' \______ I avoid them like the plague. Oh, and the two most attractive girls in the class will not return my visual favors, either. Poetic justice.

Finally, there is walking down the street, something most BU students do daily. I have a simple rule when it comes to walking: the double look. It is something I figured out freshman year and brought to the Palisades Mall in NY to try out. Sure enough, it worked, and really annoyed my then-girlfriend (mostly cause I would triumphantly proclaim how it just happened, much to her chagrin). It is, like any eye contact flirtation, an unsure science...like physics (gravity my ass). The way I use the system is that the person has to see you from some distance, get a general look, then look down/away/up before once again looking at you. Obviously this doesn't work with anyone but a stranger ("oh man, Steve looked at me today as I passed and asked if I had the five bucks to repay him - I think he wants me!"). It could also be, at least in my case, such thoughts that need clarification, as in, "damn is he really that tall?" or "is his face really dirty or...oh...beard...gotcha."

The basic gist is such: making direct eye contact can be threatening, flirtatious, or accidental. Have fun figuring out which look is which, cause hell if I know anymore.

And stop staring at me you fucking psycho. You! I can see you! Stop.



...freak.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Answered By Manton

I asked for your questions, and I got a few. Huzzah! Now I answer them.

where do babies come from?

Babies come from God. God gives them to storks, and storks leave them in cabbage patches. From there, they are magically transformed in to drunk, high, horney seventeen year olds who cannot have sex in their cars or their homes and are relegated to let their hormones fly in terribly awkward locales, such as a cabbage patch. From there, who knows where they go, cause it could be anywhere from the mother's arms, to an adoption center, or in the bathroom at prom. Lesson learned? Let your kids have sex in your house. This way they won't be drunk or high and could both be rational enough to always wear a condom. Or something to that effect.

From Suzie:
can we hear about manton's most embarassing moment?

pleeeeease?


There are a few really embarrassing ones, including being harshly rejected in sixth grade, my first sexual experience and of course seeking political asylum in a bathroom. There was one instance that I will never live down, and that involves this one kid who I did not like. I was sitting around the lunch table with all of my friends and, like any other day, I was talking to no one in particular. Frustrated--not because I didn't have an audience since that was the norm--with this one child, I had an outburst that was supposed to be "I want to beat the shit out of (boy's name)." Instead, I exclaimed, in a fit of anger, "I want to fuck the shit out of (boy's name)." As soon as the sentence blew (I probably shouldn't use this verb....) out of my mouth (definitely shouldn't have), I became very quiet, hoping that no one would have heard it. The side conversations continued until one of my friends looks at me, then the table, then back at me, and goes "what?" They all heard. I have yet to hear the end of it.

ps not gay.

Earlier this evening you had an away message that said something like "I hate...everything you choose to be" or something to that effect. Is that something you came up with or are they lyrics? Do they have significance to where you are in you life right now or was a song just stuck in your head?

Also, can you share a funny anecdote about your new roommates? What are some of their quirky habits?


It's a quote from the American version of The Office from the last episode of Season 2 where Michael (played by Steve Carrell) finally lets Toby (played by a guy named Toby - seriously) know exactly how he feels about him. The significance is it's probably one of the best comedic line readings ever, which helps since Carrell wrote the episode, and therefore his own line.

I have no funny anecdotes about my new roommates. One of them is Zack, who I consider to be my best friend at school (and one of my best in general), who is great at foosball, sketch comedy, and obtaining favors from girls (and he's not even a scumbag!). Ben is someone who I wish I knew for the previous two years as well as I do now cause he's a great guy, hard worker, and is 21. Captain Fantastic is a mouse that has recently migrated from the kitchen into Ben's room, after following Zack from Claflin Hall his freshman year. We're all glad to see he's made it this long, and no one is really upset that we have a mouse...until it defecates in one of our rooms. Then that fucker is as good as dead.

"Why do you think people are so negative towards BU. Is BU really that much worse than everywhere else?"

It is the classic "grass is greener" situation. All of the kids who wanted out of my home town so badly are either back every weekend or still live there. It's always easiest to hate where you are cause you can always complain about something. BU sucks just as much as probably any other college out there. Do you think other schools don't have fines for alcohol violations? For noise violations? People make it out to be that BU is the only collegiate institution to be run not for educating its students, but for making a profit for its trustees. Everyone wants to believe that there is something better that they are not a part of so they have something to complain about.

The Ladder Theory

The Ladder Theory goes as such: men and women put the opposite sex on a table system. Men will almost immediately put women on a ladder with designated points, with the top being "want to have sex with" followed by "friends you'd have sex with," "have sex with drunk and admit," and "have sex with drunk and not admit." Girls have two ladders, one in a similar structure to men and another ladder committed exclusively to male friends who cannot transfer from the friend ladder to the sex ladder.

Reading the site is just the most sappy, pitiful, and bitter assessment of females from someone who was burned way too many times. Whoever wrote this up took my Credo I made freshman year in high school and put numbers to it. It's a blast to read, mostly because you know how many people flat out rejected him over time. It just drips of hatred. For example, he constantly says that girls just "fuck" drug dealers, addicts, people going nowhere. Yeah, ok, they do. What about the other girls?

I do not subscribe to the methods that he believes one should use to get a girl, which is to ignore them and treat them like shit and they'll want you. I'm just not that mean of a guy. When I am, it's usually for someone I wouldn't have sex with even if I used Captain Fantastic. Once again, grass is always greener is fully in play here. Sure, I have had a thing for Arielle Vaz for as long as I can remember, but that doesn't mean that I ever thought I'd get her (in any situation). Did it ever occur to you, Ladder Theorist, that you just simply weren't her type? She wouldn't go for me because she wouldn't go for a guy like me. That's just how it goes.

I have had a rather good record with girls I have been with for being a nice guy. I will continue to keep this method up because I usually get good girls when I act like a good guy. I wouldn't really want a girl that I treated like shit and he she wanted me more. That really just shows that she has little self-esteem, thinks very little of herself, and needs to constantly be told she isn't fat or is pretty. Who the hell wants to deal with that? Sure, she's hot, but if the whole time she's going "does this position make me look fat?" what's the point? I'm too old to be criticizing the most attractive girls cause they can go for douche bag guys. I don't need them.

Doesn't mean I can't use them for alone time ammunition....

I will use this time to answer a question that has been asked of me for some time. I was asked to have a realistic fantasy girl, and I said an Asian, much to the surprise of my (half) Asian friend Kim. She inquired further as to why white guys usually would want a an Asian girl. My answer is such: it's what we can't have. Almost every Asian girl I have seen at BU hangs out exclusively with other Asians, including males, of course. They are the most self-excluded race I have encountered here. To somehow nab a girl from the giant group and take her to bed for some love making (?) would be to seemingly do the impossible. I assume it's the same reason why black guys go after white girls.

Except that there might be some underlying male ego problem that runs as an undercurrent. If the urban myths are true, then Asian men have the smallest penises, Caucasians are normal, and black men are the undisputed champs. For as long as time can document, men have been insecure about their penis sizes. One could also assume that the vaginas of all three races would be designed to fit their male counterparts. By using these ideas, one could hypothesize that men sort of "trade up" to make the illusion that they are bigger by going down one level of vaginal size. Therefore, white men get with Asian girls to have a false illusion of penile grandeur, and same with the black men with white girls. It's a stretch (lol get it lol), but I think it might hold some weight, especially since I know absolutely nothing about human anatomy.

Finally, it wasn't from the Ask Manton post, but someone left me with i love you. and it wasn't my Mom. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Mostly, I just hope it wasn't from a male.