Fuckinn Ireland.

So i went to Jesse's house two day. It was mediocre at best. His face annoyed me. During one of my hallucinations, a worm came out of his nose, and then crawled into his guitar. It seems like he is out to get me. I'm not sure why yet. Missing farrell. He's in Ireland. Fuckin Ireland. Fucking dunkin donuts. Gosh I want. I'm not sure why yet.

(Pat, I'm out to get you. Now. I'm creepin' on your ass with dick in hand. Naaaaaaaah. More like knife in hand, because I'm gonna stab you. Stab the smart right outta ya.)
-Jesse thought this. I'm sure of it.

Ireland

Oh snap. Ireland is mad rainy. And cloudy. I'm in an internet cafe spendin' 1.5 euros per hour to tell ya this. Chocolate cookies are damn good here- the chips are more brown than their black U.S counterparts. The people look like they're all on a mission, which I guess all people are more or less. I wandered around for two hours today so far. Pretty dayamn cool so far. Cheers.

Liquid. Favorite Liquid. Eloquent Elocution.

Mountain Dew Code Red:

Sweet. delicious. 

What? 

Sweet. Delicious.

We know it's delicious... Describe what it does for you, please.

Describe? With what? These things? These... words?

Yes, these words. What else?

Well... I was planning on letting feeling take over...

Well, fucker. Words are all you got!

Yes. Truth is, I don't know if I can.

Mountain Dew Code Red. Describe it, animal. Filthy Animal!

Why must you call me that? Why must you treat me so inhumanely?

What the fuck else do you expect, grime?

Please, don't. It's sweet. It's delicious! What more do you want?

So much more. So much more. Everything more. 

You are asking too much. I am being truthful. I have reached the end. This is the extent of my descriptive powers, I assure you.

Wrong answer.

AH! STOP! 

WRONG ANSWER!

It's sweet... It's delicious... Please... Sweet... Delicious...

Insouciance. Fucker.

Digestive Acid:

Well I guess if I were to say any, my favorite liquid would be digestive acid. It's great inside and out! What more can you ask for hun? I can stuff muffins in my belly until I puke and then I just get a double prize! Whatever is still in my tum-tum, gets digested thanks to this SHIT. The "DA" that comes out burns my throat a bit and I kind of get turned on. Does that make me a masochist? Well if it does fuck you!! Does that make you want to hit me?Please? Well digestive acid will always hold a special place in my heart. It helped me get this great bod i'll tells ya! Mmm even thinking about it makes me long for it. I think I need to use the bathroom,i'm gonna head to the bathroom.

Christmas

It's christmas. Give a shit? Sure, the food's good!

Scarsdale

Yea, Scarsdale is some place in downstate, New York, but not really. Not this Scarsdale. Fuck the other Scarsdale. Scarsdale doesn’t really exist in a geographical sense, no, not really. It exists inside me, my roommate Remanu, my friend Lila, Patrick, Lisa, and a few other people. Fuck everything you think you may know about Scarsdale, seriously. Scarsdale changes everyday. I might not even have the most up-to-date cognitive map of Scarsdale, and I’m the mayor.

OK, so what the fuck is this place then, right? I don’t know. And writing it down sure as shit does not help. So we’re lost, right?

Not exactly, I can lay out a situation which may or may not take place in Scarsdale, and that may shed a little bit of light on the matter. But in all honesty, what the fuck good will that do? I can lay out a situation that would happen in Rochester, New York that would be equally likely to happen in Wichita, Kansas, am I right? So outlining a situation that would happen in Scarsdale really does no fucking good, but I’m the mayor so I’ll do it anyways.

-Jonathan Pinkersberg walks out of his house on a Tuesday. It is mid-may, and he lives in a University town. There are two universities that reside in this relatively large community. In reality, one institution is only a “college,” and the other is a University, but who gives a shit?

-Jonathan Pinkersberg exits his house at 7:58 a.m, he must be at work by 8:15 a.m. He has given himself more than enough time to make the morning commute and still remain in good standing with his co-workers and his bosses.

-This plan however, does not come into fruition. The second Jonathan’s ass hits the seat, his face is broken into a smile. A stupid fucking smile that says “Hey, How are ya, my name’s John” as if he were a fucking salesman or something. Along with the smile comes a brand new attitude.

-Jonathan grips the wheel and shows all of his teeth. He no longer looks like a salesman, try a patient in a psychiatric facility. He messes up his formerly perfectly sculpted scalp and shakes his head in a fit of fury. He rams his right hand up into the automatic gearshift and commands the car into reverse. He screeches out of the driveway yelling “Scrom scrom scrom I am happening and so are you!”

- After peeling out of the driveway, Jonathan snaps the car into “Drive” and heads off somewhere. Swaying back and forth across the road, Jonathan not only crosses the double yellow lines once, he crosses them every five seconds- he’s counting.

- Every time he crosses into the wrong side of the road, he says “I am sinning, I am sinning, oh Lord I know it’s just the beginning.”

- He begins shaking his head back and forth, left and right, surveying his surroundings. He is driving through his neighborhood, yet appears to be utterly disturbed by everything. He drives past the park and bounces up and down in his seat, head out the window yelling “Parks become holes in the ground where children end up as a soupy eternal snack for monsters like MEEEE!”

- As he drives past the elementary school where his nine year-old daughter, Katherine learns, he screams, “Education is a fruitless endeavor- let’s run in circles around barnacle parties as I offer your grandkids up for Lent!”

- He finally screeches to a halt outside of the Scarsdale Hardware store.

-Jonathan Pinkersberg drives a black 2005 Volkswagen Jetta.

- Jonathan leaps(literally) out the window of his car and gets on the roof of his Volkswagen. He starts doing a dance in which he is swaying back and forth with his eyes closed. His hands are extended in front of him and making a motion with them as if he is letting air pass between them. 

- Jonathan snaps out of it immediately and stares intently at the door of the Scarsdale hardware shop. The manager inside has flipped the “CLOSED” sign to “OPEN.” It is now 9 a.m. Jonathan propels himself from the roof into the entrance of the store and barges inside.

-The Scarsdale Hardware store manager jumps back, a little frightened. “Hello there sir, how are you today?”

-“I am here to be the first customer of the day.” Commands Jonathan with force.

-“Well, that you are sir! chuckles nervously Is there anything I can help you with today?”

-“No, you cannot help me. I am beyond you. I sway with precision in every way. Every fiber of my being aches with the knowledge that humanity does not possess, and never will. I stare at you people in longing. Longing for what I can never attain… But, never want to attain.”

- “Oh. Well then, uh…”

-“I am done with this. Over it. Above it.  OUT OF IT,” after which Jonathan bolted out the door.

-With a sense of satisfaction, Jonathan crossed the street to the CVS and purchased a Milky Way bar. It was 97 cents. He walked out front and sat down on the curb and spent the day gorging on miniscule pieces of the Milky Way until it was gone three hours later. Then he began to cry.

See? I told you Scarsdale was a hard fucking place to pinpoint. That little anecdote does nothing to zone in on the meaning and the culture and the EVERYTHING that is Scarsdale. I could walk into a bar anywhere in the state of New Jersey and hear some little asshole spouting off a story about Jonathan Pinkersberg as if he really could reside in Scarsdale or something. OK, I’m being hard on you- I realized. I’m making this supremely difficult to grasp, when in reality anyone can be in Scarsdale at any given point depending on the actions they take and their attitudes in executing them. Well not exactly anybody, but most people. Most people, that is, that are my kind of people. What? What does it mean to be your kind of person? Aren’t we all people just the same? No, that’s a very interesting question- we are not all the same kind of person, we are very different, each and every one of us. Let me illustrate my point with more anecdotal evidence: I am going to sketch a character that may or may not reside in Scarsdale.

- Salad Gormsdale is a man that is 19 years old. He spent the majority of his high school career playing such sports as soccer and track/cross country. He now attends a prestigious institution where he does little more than mess around with people and eat good food. He likes soda and has recently taken a liking to coffee, which makes him think and read faster. He enjoys thinking and often opts for time alone over time with others. He thinks a lot about social norms and a lot about all the different things he has seen in his life.

OK, well that sheds a little bit of light I’d say. You may disagree with me, but I feel that paragraph is rather informative. You may find yourself dissatisfied for a number of reasons: one being, as in the earlier example, this guy “Salad” could reside in a number of different locations. What the fuck is so special about him or so special about Scarsdale that makes the two of them perfect matches? That is a valid question, and I cannot answer it. All I can say is that space exists, and sometimes people just have to occupy it. I AM NOT GOING TO ADDRESS THE REST OF YOUR CONCERNS, BECAUSE I AM THE MAYOR OF SCARSDALE.

What kinds of objects occupy Scarsdale? It’s funny that you ask. Walking the streets of Scarsdale, you see many things:

-garbage bags

-Shopping bags

-Backpacks laying on stoops

-Bicycles

-Shoes being worn by individuals

- Empty soda bottles in designated recycling areas

All in all, not a very unique place as far as objects go…

Are you any closer to understanding Scarsdale? You may search for years and never truly come to grips with what it means to be a resident. That’s fine. Residents of Scarsdale only exist because not everyone lives in Scarsdale. We also only exist because not everyone can or is willing to enter Scarsdale.  That is, however a weak argument. There is more to Scarsdale than simply the exclusion of others for arbitrary reasons. We exist and function in search of a common goal, and I can’t really tell you that goal unless you truly understand Scarsdale. Like I said, you may never understand Scarsdale, and that’s OK. We only exist because of this and honestly live hoping that not many will find out. If you want to find out, come find us. You’ll know who we are if you are a true Scarsdale resident, but if you are a true Scarsdale resident, then you won’t even need to find us, right?