culture what what

someone go see this with me.

C'mon. Free Shakespeare!

Dear Blogger,

Stop being stupid. That is all.

Sincerely, Marcos.

blah blah blah school blah blah tests blah

One of the annoying things about sleeping in class is that it makes up for my not sleeping enough the previous night.

No, really, this makes sense.

I've been striving for straight a's, but since my chances of that are about to be flushed down the toilet soon, it would make sense that I should attempt to, well, stay awake in class.

Alas, that is so difficult! Today in the 40 year old virgin's class, I passed out. Whenever I woke up (every 10 or so minutes), I wrote down whatever had just come out of his mouth at that moment. So naturally, when class is over, I'm already well rested. No rest for the refreshed!

Oh well, that class is worthless anyway. I spent a grand total of about 20 minutes studying for the exam and ended up pulling a B+ on the first test. Oh I'm a badass, hells yeah. Other classes are somewhat good: A perfect score on my UN & International Orgs midterm, a B+ on the first Logic test, but my Public Policy was a 41/50, which means without extra credit, that class is an A- at best. In short, FUCK.

And don't get me started on the Mideast politics midterm...

...monday morning
marcos: So, this essay test, well, how long do you want our answers to be?
dr. tezcur: Well, a paragraph for the short answer and I guess...3 for the long essay?

Simple enough, right? Of course, this means I barely fill half the blue book with all the crazy overachievers are writing on the fucking BACK COVER of the goddamn thing. Granted, I write small and I've always been pretty concise...but still, that shit freaks me out. Damn nerds makin' me look bad.

ANYWAY, I am so lazy. I've been out of class since 1115 and I have yet to start studying for the Contemporary Political Thought midterm and my second Logic test tomorrow. No worries. As long as I get to the library...soon...I should be good.

***

In non-academic related news, I've been reading The Satanic Verses and kind of realize why Rushdie had a fatwa issued on his head. I kind of get the subtle heresy in it all, and I suppose if someone wrote a Catholic type version of this book, I might be pissed off too. It's a bit like Pynchon's writing, but not as obtuse and lacking (I think?) many of Pynchon's crazy references.

Also, I think that this might be fun, in a "I think I am losing my mind to endurance sports" kind of way.

Weekend seems to be filled with college democrats stuff and a blackhawks game, and hopefully may involve a bottle of tequila, but hey, whatever comes up, comes up.

And if no blackhawks game, well, then Kate, expect a call and a spur of the moment Idea!

Marcos Runs A Marathon

a description of the events that took place at the chicago marathon, 10/9/05

STARTING LINE: I really, really have to take a piss. I’m not fucking joking. I’m about to start running a fucking marathon and I have to take a piss. I went over to the port-a-potties and was about to jump into one, until I turned my head around and realized that there were ten people at in each line for each toilet. Mind you, there were around 60 of these things in the general vicinity. I said, “Fuck it” and decided that I should just attempt to sweat it out. Dear lord, just help me finish this thing.

MILE 1: I still need to take a piss, but it’s not as bad. It’s now only a slight annoyance and I’m starting to settle into a pace.

MILE 2.25: Parents! Yay parents. A million spectators line this course, and somehow I’m able to spot out my parents. Still need to piss.

MILE 5: Anti-Bush protestors. Always everywhere. I try to raise my arms up and give them a shout, but I’m not sure if they took at support or abuse. Then again, most people didn’t give a shit anyway, because we’re too focused on the fact that we’re not even 1/5 of the way done yet.

MILE 6: The sun is blazing. I am hot. Really hot. Maybe Under Armour was a bad idea…

MILE 7: Scratch that. I’m fucking cold and I need a hoodie now. Goddamn condos. At least I don’t have to piss anymore.

MILE 7.5: We are in Boystown. The Gay Army is dancing with rifles off to the side, and Mike screaming GO MARCOS from the sidewalk shatters my entertainment. I feel great and then I notice the cross dressers have set up a stage and are dancing for us.

MILE 9-13: This is where the course gets boring.

MILE 13.1: Holy fucking shit I’m halfway there. I start a conversation with a guy in his fifties about how the inhuman Kenyans are just about to finish (we crossed the halfway at about 1:55, Felix Limo won the marathon shortly after at 2:07). Then I pick up the pace and make the old man eat my dust.

MILE 15.5: GO MARCOS is shouted again at me, coming from none other than Black Marcus, who was working the 25k marker. I speed up again, feeling empowered.

MILE 17: Mike, Jessica and Stefanie spot me and take movies in pictures as I pass through Greektown and make my way over the Halsted overpass of the Dan Ryan expressway.

MILE 17.5: Oh man I am dying I am dying, I am dy…POWERGEL! If you do not know, you cannot understand, and if you do know, you know too much. I grab a caffeinated chocolate one. Never has the taste of rotting cake frosting been so sweet on my lips.

MILE 19: I really feel like I’m going to die soon. We’re in Plisen (Mexican district) and they are giving out free water. I take it even though we have another water station coming up, but I arrive to late to grab an orange slice. I’m starting to suffer from hunger pangs, which isn’t so bad, because it makes me not think about my legs.

MILE 19.5-21.5: I am in so much pain, so much pain, so much pain…I’m desperately trying to keep up with the 3:55 pace group. Which means I’m doing much better than I hoped to- I trained to run a 4:30 marathon, and I might smash that by a half hour. We’ll see.

MILE 22: We are running through Chinatown, which has a huge amount of spectators cheering us on, they have the New Years dragon thing parading about…and I tackle some spectator moron who’s trying to cross the street. Idiot didn’t get out of the way…I get hit from behind, but all I hope is that idiot got trampled.

MILE 22.5: My pace starts to slow down, and I’m struggling to keep up with the pace group. We’re next to the expressway and the sun is beating down on us hard. I see Cominskey park and feel better, but then again, I still have four miles to go.

MILE 24: As I’m jogging behind Yves (who, according to his shirt, is “A very slow jogger from Belgium”), a lady starts screaming “Free Beer”. Yes, she is giving out Dixie cups of beer to passing runners. (For all you non-runners, beer is high in carbs. Carbs are good for runners, ergo, Beer=Good for runners.) One guy turns around and gets some. I wish it were free tequila. Oh well. I’ve had beer after running, and my tolerance is nonexistent after a long run. I decide finishing drunk, although an appealing idea, might not be too wise. So I pass up my man Yves and see if I can find the pace group.

MILE 26: Almost there…wait. We have to go up the motherfucking Roosevelt Street Bridge?! There is absolutely nothing more sadistic in the world than making runners go up a fucking hill .2 miles away from the finish line. Fuck you, you fucking bridge! I start to build up to a sprint and head toward the finish line…

MILE 26.2: …crossing at a clock time of 4:03:something, making my official chip time 3:55:30, a mere 30 seconds behind my pace group. As I walk through the finish area, in extreme pain and almost collapsing a few times, the realization that nothing is far away anymore hits me. Praise me, for I am the overman!