Buffy Gets Memorialized

It is with great sadness that I bear the news that my dearest cat Buffy (whom neither I nor anyone in my immediate family named) passed away yesterday, December 30, 2009. You best know her from her appearance in David and the Roach: Part II, where I called her on her fairly impressive BAP. She was 8-10 years old at the time of her passing.

The circumstances of Buffy's death are mysterious and obscure. We suspect foul play.
What we know for certain follows:

• At 3:30 pm, Buffy was alive and well, eating food. In a surprising act of kindness, she left the food dish for Geordie (the other cat, pictured at some point below) to eat. Considering her general habit of starving Geordie, I was surprised. I went to the edge of the counter where she had walked to and told her how impressed I was with her decision.
• Around 4 pm I leave the house and watch The Bourne Supremacy with Lauren Wright.
• 5:45 pm: My mother comes home from work. After feeding the cats and only having one come to the dish, she looks around for the other one. She finds her on the living room rug behind the maroon ottoman, DEAD. She enters hysterics.
• 6:07 pm: Still in hysterics, my mother calls me to tell me that Buffy is, according to all circumstantial evidence, DEAD. Sadness overcomes me, and after waiting a sufficient amount of time for my grandmother to get to my house before I do so I don't have to deal with my mother's hysterics alone, I go home. Buffy has been placed in a purple towel inside of a cardboard box, and she is quite DEAD. I pet her one last time, and we carry her out to the garage.

On December 29, 2009, around 2:30 in the afternoon, Buffy was last photographed. Although she was high as a kite, I feel it is in the best interest of this investigation that these pictures be disclosed.

There's Buffy, her sable coat covered in the contents of AN ENTIRE BAG OF CATNIP. Not only did she open the drawer in which it was hidden and dump the whole bag out onto the kitchen floor, but she also decided she would get the best high from it by rolling around in it.


Here she is again, this time inhaling the narcotic herb nasally.


The drug's ill effects are evident in the sallow cheekbones and tripped-out eyes. The cat is, unfortunately, geeking out.


This cat is not Buffy. It is instead Geordie, the oldest cat alive, who has unwittingly caught some of the buzz as well, and is stumbling his way through the kitchen.


And this, the last known picture of Buffy before she was cut down in her prime.
Some might chock her death up to ODing on the catnip. The vet said it was a blood clot. I, however, say it was - in the words of William Shakespeare - "foul and most unnatural MURTHER."
Regardless, I feel a brief memorial of the life of Buffy is in order.

The Life and Times of Buffy the Cat
The first couple years of Buffy's life are filled with as much mystery and intrigue as her final hours; of these I know nothing. However, her owner soon discovered a cat allergy and sent her to us to live as a temporary arrangement. For the first few months of her life with us, she lived in my room. She was our only cat with claws, and her adamant use of these, combined with her ominous black-and-white coat, convinced me and my brother that she had some supernatural connection with and/or was Satan.

Her subsequent actions would prove this fact. I was convinced that with every 30-second stare-down she'd give strangers, she'd come up with at least 13 different ways to kill them. Friend and confidant Cullen Hanly, in fact, remembers this stare years later as the most he's ever felt his life to be in jeopardy. Twice she sought to enact these plans.

The first time, I was innocently passing between my laundry room and my kitchen through a narrow doorway. My dog, the beloved J.J., pulled up parallel to the doorway, and I pet him all friendly-like. Buffy, however, seized upon this display of affection, and, seeing me trapped on three sides, LEAPT from the kitchen counter on my left to the kitchen table on my right, nearly decapitating me. To avoid this assault, I lurched forward, nearly toppling over the unwitting hurdle that J.J. had become. I spent the next ten minutes hyperventilating and contemplating how I could possibly defend myself from this demonic mastermind. The second time, she knocked a lamp over and set the house on fire. NBD.

And yet, she wasn't so bad. Oft would she lie on the pool table and, since I was unable to play a game with a cat on the table (though twice I tried), I would roll a ball into her stomach, where she would trap it with her forepaws and kick the everliving crap out of it with her hindfeet. It amused me. I'm sure she loved it too. Also, despite her immortalized BAP, she was one of the best damn roach hunting cats I've ever seen and ever hope to see. Roaches trembled in her presence.
And in a way, those memories ensure that Buffy will never truly leave us. After all, my fingers are pretty scarred up from attempting to get the balls back from her, and her fur is going to be on that pool table forever. So much for a temporary arrangement...


Even though she still had some good years left in her, it's nice to think that she didn't have to do the normal cat-suffering, which generally includes 3-6 years of withering away to skeleton before dying, and she seemed to go pretty quickly and painlessly. Also she was stoned out of her mind for at least 5 of her final 28 hours, and who wouldn't want to go out that way?

And it's also nice to think of this:

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

David Blogs Again: Part II: A Poem

I know it's been awhile. So as a special Christmas present, I got you iambs. 375 of 'em (or technically 374 iambs and one trochee, if you want to be ungrateful about it). Enjoy! And as an extra special bonus, see how many sonnets you can spot!


A Poem
Could it have been two months (TWO MONTHS?!) entire
Since last my fingers graced these blackened keys
To share my wisdom and adventures with
The joy-starved crowds? Have two whole moons eclipsed
Since I enplaned against the sun encroached?
Though you, O audience, counting down the days
To my return, each nightly phase recall
With almanacked precision, I myself
Could neither wax nor wane discern; could not
The seasons recollect; could not the weeks'
Commanded sanctity remember as
In vain for rare hilarities I searched.
The moon hath twice its oscillating eye
Opened and shut above the spinning Earth,
Although mine own have not the fortune had
To gaze upon the tales that you with mirth
Would read. Though laughter yet hath filled my days,
'Tis but in spurts, and not continued feats
That must a joyous update then require.
Though I have ridden bus and train and plane,
Embarked two sep'rate times along this coast
Atlantic, not a time did I remain
Behind for want of sleep or as, engross'd
Within a TenderGrill (no mayonnaise),
I ate in hasteless bliss, despite my prayers
It would occur; for all my trav'ling days
I rose on time, and - though my blog despairs -
Ne'er locked was I inside a dim-lit cell
And questioned for a terrorist confused,
Nor did I leave my luggage at the gate
Although I pleaded it to fare me well,
As Fate for Comedy was not enthused,
And neither was my suff'ring blog for Fate.
But O! the squandered opportunities,
Material that might have epics made
If decorated with amenities
And properly developed: I'd lain splayed
Upon the floor of Teedz, a victim of
The Coke machine's discharge, for Heaven's sake,
But quickly stood and gained applause and love
By bowing nonchalantly to retake
My pride and thus forsake my blog; I've dressed
In whitened clothes aboard a boat and fell
Not 'twixt the banks Potomac, though repairs
Could fix the jacket - not this blog distressed,
Who river-water begs from droughted Hell
And undeserved my consequences bears.
The moon hath twice its rounded course fulfilled,
An ululating she-wolf hath released
A score of panting howls*, and I have spilled
Upon a countless page a million words unceased,
Though not a single one upon this blog
Was writ, and not a single one has graced
Thine starving eyes as through the morning fog
The sicklied moon my finished works embraced;
And though these nights I have for want of sleep
Procrastinated with a song or book
Or television schoolwork to repel,
Those eyes I have not fed, nor did I keep
Them tearless dry, but ev'ry one forsook:
Maintaining hunger, thirsting to dispel.
I must apologize sincerely, then,
To you, anticipating reader, who
Refreshed the interwebs again, again,
Again, and found each time no musings new,
No tales heroic, patience left without
Deserved reward; through cold November days
And long December nights you paced about
In frantic fear to ease uncured malaise,
And though you walked, you never reached reprieve,
Encountered but another sleepless night,
Another wintry day with laughter none,
Until this springtime post did winter leave
Behind, and freshly to your lives a light
It brought to find relief, a guiding Sun.




*This picture might help this line make more sense:

David Flies Too Close to the Sun

For Fall Break, I decided to come back to the beautiful land that is South Carolina to see my brother one last time before he got shipped off to Afghanistan. My flight left at 11:00 AM with a connection in Hotlanta. For lesser men, this would have been an easy task. For those brave few who thrive on pure adrenaline and good fortune, however, it was an opportunity for greatness.

My day begins at 3 in the AM, when I leave (/get kicked out of) Bazik and Gianluca's room and go back to mine. I haven't packed, but this fact presents no trouble: I merely empty my hamper into my suitcase, and there I am. And pretty much every piece of clothing I own was in that hamper, so it was a good deal. Having packed, I needed to hit up the interwebs before packing away my laptop, so that keeps me up until around 6:30, when I decide it would be a good time to sleep. Setting my alarm to 7:15, I calmly pass the night until...

9:02 (which reads 9:10 on my 8-minute-ahead alarm clock), when I wake up a whole two hours after I meant to, an entire hour after I was supposed to leave AU altogether, and realize that my schedule may require altering. I still have to shower because my hair's looking ridiculous, so I calmly stroll out of my room around 9:15. By 9:30, I'm in the Tenleytown Metro Station, where I hop on the train.

FUNNY STORY: WRONG TRAIN. For some reason, I thought the fact that the Shady Grove train was coming in 1 minute was a sign from God that I should make my flight on time, so I hopped on, only to realize in Friendship Heights that there was a slim chance that train could take me to Chinatown. So I depart from this train, and have to wait 6 entire minutes in the Friendship Heights Station for the Glenmont-bound train. This takes until 9:40.

I then embark upon the correct train, waiting another 6 minutes in Chinatown for my Yellow Line train, hop on it, cross the Potomac, and hit up Reagan. Time: 10:18 AM. That's right, I have 42 minutes to dick around in the airport. Unfortunately, I cannot find the check-in place for a good 5 minutes or so. Upon finding it, I notice that actual human beings only serve the high and mighty first-class passengers. The lowly coach passengers must flock around the self-check-in machines, pressing buttons, punching them, and otherwise failing to get them to operate correctly. I get in line for this debacle. A few minutes later, I am promptly informed that I am not in line, and the line that has formed behind me is actually a figment of my imagination. As we switch lines, everyone (who have suddenly become real, actual human beings, not only existing on this earth, but taking up precious space between me and that damned self-check-in machine) remembers that the Army sergeant going to Afghanistan next week was in front of them; on the other hand, the person directly in front of that selfsame Army sergeant - yours truly - goes completely unnoticed, and is relegated to the back of this new line composed of actual, physical entities. I become miffed. This goes unnoticed as well.

Regardless, aided by the Lord our God, my particular combination of poking and punching the self-check-in machine seems to get it to work, and I get my boarding pass. It is 10:31.

I now enter the line to go through security (for a second time, actually, as I entered it once when I was lost and looking for the check-in area). It's a long ass line. I overhear someone tell a girl who was worried about making her flight that it would only take 10 minutes. There seems to be a good chance I'll make my flight after all.

I get through security, completely terrorism-free mind you, and proceed to my gate which is near the end of the terminal. Around three-quarters of the way there, I realize that I have left my bookbag at the security checkpoint. Who does that?
I sprint back to security, take my bookbag, and run back to my gate. The plane has not left; however, my odyssey is not over. One fool trying to finagle his way onto MY PLANE has struck up an intense conversation with the only woman who had the power to let me onto that plane. Somehow I get around him without punching him in the face, as I was near to doing. The woman lets me onto the plane.

10:55 AM, I waltz onto Delta Flight 1961 (Kennedy's inauguration year; divine sign, I know, right?) like I own the damned thing, boss that I am, and take my fucking seat. At 11:00, the flight promptly taxis onto the runway.

Some people would've been content with just having survived one close call at the airport. Some people would have sat back in their blue cushioned chairs (slightly upsetting the old woman behind them, though not enough to make her actually say anything), quietly thanked the divine providence that allowed them onto the plane despite their irresponsible actions, and learned something akin to a lesson from the experience, dayeinuing like a Passover seder. Not David Wile. NEVER David Wile. Upon the flight landing in the ATL at 12:54 PM, I needed to catch a 1:37 flight to C-town. GOOD NEWS: The flight has been delayed, and 1:42 is the new 1:37. I figure I have time for lunch.

I go to the Burger King, literally not 10 yards from my gate, order my TenderGrill Meal no mayo, and pop a squat in the eating area, which is actually closer to my gate than the Burger King. The only thing closer to my gate is another gate, and that doesn't count. I plop myself down, savor every bite of my TenderGrill and fries, drink my drank all up, and enjoy the music that's playing, which consists of a nice mix of Michael Jackson and '90s pop songs. Immersed in the fact that I still remembered every word of Fastball's "The Way," despite the fact that I hadn't heard it since 1999, I quickly lose track of time. I figure I have nothing to worry about, because the PA guys gave some missing parties heading to Mobile about 5 last-calls; they'll obviously tear down the airport looking for me if I don't get to the gate on time.

At 1:37 PM, I get to the gate, having finished my meal and figuring I might as well hop on this plane that's been waiting on me. Well, surprise, sur-fucking-prise. Guess what plane isn't boarding DESPITE THE FACT THAT I CAN FUCKING SEE IT THROUGH THE WINDOW? Mine. My plane. That one.

In summation: The plane that I had LESS THAN TWO HOURS to get to from my bed to the gate, I get on. The plane that's boarding 20 feet from where I've been sitting for the past half-hour, that's the one I miss. How, you ask?

Well, obviously, after making the first plane, I misinterpreted God's divine motives. Misunderstanding one act of kindness for a general support of my impunctuality, I allowed myself to become so intent on boarding planes as lately as possible that I never really had a chance to make my second plane. And as I always say, once the inevitability of the mistake becomes apparent, it also becomes easier to accept. Don't be so hard on yourself, Icarus.


And yes, the title's a pun. This blog has layers.

David Blogs Again

Friends: I know it must have been a long, cold September. Yea, as summer warmth turned to late-summer warmth, so did this very blog experience a gradual cooling/lessening of humidity. And I understand that I let down my adoring readers. For without readers, this blog is nothing but the musings of a beleaguered teenager in the throes of youthful naivete trying to find his way amid the cockroaches, international athletes, and somewhat cute pets which bombard his daily life. The millions whose lives only exist between All the Wile posts - those are the heroes that make this blog rise above such mundane descriptive-yet-not-quite-flowery-enough-to-be-poetic phrases and become, as the great rapper/producer/sage Kanye West once described it, "the voice of this generation, of this decade; [it] will be the loudest voice."

As much as I am ashamed to admit it, my dear readers, my shivering, huddled masses, I have kept you from your Fountain of Youth, your daily bread, my flesh and blood from which you ate and drank. My life has changed drastically since you last read tales of my epic triumph over a cockroach, yea, even since you viewed Gretchen Bleiler's beautiful, bikinied, glycerin-covered body. FOR INSTANCE:

1. I have won FarmVille.Take a look-see for yourself:


THAT'S ME. Or excuse me. That's FarmVille me. AT MY VILLA. LIKE A BOSS.
That's months of sweat and blood right there, people. Friendships were strained, homework tossed aside, responsibilites shunned: even my beloved blog fell casualty. And with it, you, O readers, O starving literary refugees seeking shelter from the vulgar, illiterate, blogospheric storm and finding naught but already-read updates from bygone months - fraught with anticipation you eagerly refreshed page after unredeeming page, praying for salvation from my toiling hands though answer none did come - yea, and you fell casualty as well.

2. I have won APO.

This might take some explaining. Since I left you, my minions millionfold, staring at Gretchen Bleiler's athletically built legs and stomach flat as the slopes on which she rides, I have come back to DC, and AU in particular. I am currently pledging APO. I have come away from APO victorious. How, you ask?

1. Up Till Dawn: 1.5 hours of service, won $70+ iHome in raffle.
2. Columbia Heights Block Party: 6 hours of service, walked away with ~$150 worth of free Under Armour.

Having completed 3 service projects (the first I got nothing material out of, except a morning full of Jesus and meeting an actual, living human being from Lynchburg, South Carolina, named Bernice), I'm averaging upwards of $70 per service project. Having done around 12.5 hours of service, that averages out to OVER $17.60 PER HOUR.
ONCE AGAIN: I WON APO. And I'm not even a brother yet.

Which brings me to my next point:

I have a midterm tomorrow for which I have done absolutely minimal studying. Additionally, I have to write an in-class essay in German tomorrow. And I do not own a German-English dictionary. And I haven't watched the movie the essay's on in about a year and a half now. Which means my winning streak may have to end at 2.
Ye yearning crowds: do not be dissuaded by the fact that I have only been inspired to break these five loaves among the multitude as a last gasp at procrastination; nay, be merry, rejoice among yourselves, ululate in joyous bliss, for such extremes have awoken the dormant volcano that is my blog. Like all great causes that are once put down, extreme tension has brought this social force back: as the old Negro spirituals foretold, we have overcome; as the nostalgic Southerners promised at Appomattox, we have risen again; as Dylan Thomas begged his father, we have not gone gentle into that dark night; and, like the Iranian demonstrators, we have relieved a couple slow news weeks and quickly been forgotten about by the American public altogether.
We have a dream today.

David's Heart Breaks

By now, those of you who follow this blog with all of your hearts and souls are well aware of my shaky relationship with America, particularly with her athletes. I've let them down a number of times, I know, I've accepted this, let's move on. But recently, this commercial has been streaming the airwaves (particularly when I'm watching our men's indoor volleyball team), and I am, for one, flabbergasted, in every sense of the word. AMERICAN ATHLETES ARE FUCKING GORGEOUS. All of them. Even the dudes (no homo; also, do me a solid and put that at the end of the volleyball parenthetical as well). Have a look-see for yourself:



They are freaking beautiful. I mean, I could masturbate to this thing if I were so inclined, presumably climaxing around Lindsay Vonn's tantalizing nose-crinkle about 13 seconds in.
In particular, I would like to bring to your attention one Gretchen Bleiler. Although the harshness of that name does no justice to the harmonious beauty of the woman, I've managed to look past this and fall head-over-heels in love with her. She's 28, her birthday is April 10, she's from Toledo, Ohio, she's 5'5" (5'9" on a snowboard), she won silver in the women's half-pipe in 2006 at Torino, and she looks like this as naked as I can find her:


Awesome, right? NOT SO FAST. Now before you go falling all ass-over-teakettle in love with her and making the same mistake I did, I should let you in on the dirty little secret Team USA doesn't want us to know that I've also discovered about her: she is, as Wikipedia so callously states in a bullet of both typographical and metaphorical effect, "married to Chris Hotell."
I'll give you a second so you can recollect yourself. It's a toughy.

After discovering this little tidbit and promptly bawling in heartbroken agony over love's labors lost for the next 15-20 minutes, I decided to do some research. First off, this Chris Hotell character is neither good enough of a snowboarder to have a Wikipedia page nor hot enough to be on Team USA, meaning the love of my life obviously married beneath her. Why, Gretchen, why???

After about a week and a half, I regained my composure, and I've managed to put it all back in perspective. After all, 'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Also, Shawn Johnson's available (and, before that poisonous thought even enters your vulgar mind, she's 17 and LEGALLLL [in South Carolina, at least]). And although she's already gotten a restraining order issued on one especially vehement 34-year-old stalker and could kick my ass any day of the week and twice on Sundays with those Godzilla thighs of hers, I think I see the start of something beautiful....



PS: Who else noted that I had the blog-trifecta of a link, a picture, AND a video??? This is shaping up to be a real blog, instead of just me rambling about cockroach fights.... Crazy shit.

David Mentions Cheryl

Every time I do this whole blogging thing, Cheryl gets on me about the fact that I didn't mention her despite her muse-like inspiration in my topic formulation. Well, this Friday, a momentous occasion occurred: Cheryl and I ended our internship at the Kuala Lumpur branch of the worldwide global management consulting firm Accenture. While her internship was paid and mine was not, she also had the additional responsibility of actually showing up in the flesh, so no hard feelings there. In honor of our momentous achievement, I have dedicated this blog post entirely to the GChat conversations which kept us going strong throughout our interning period and safe from the brink of an otherwise-sure-collapse into insanity. I've also neatly subdivided it into themes.

So Cheryl: Here's lookin' at you, kid.

Internet Activity

June 23, 11:39 PM

David: OH!

So someone

And I don’t know who

And I’m glad to find out it wasn’t you

Commented "BORING" on that last post.

Cheryl: What no way??

Let me check if it is me.

David: Yes way.

Cheryl: Oh no :(

I thought you meant the previous posts.

David: Oh. No.

Cheryl: Who the hell else reads your blog?

June 22, 3:13 AM

David: Where do you play Tetris?

Cheryl: I kinda don’t want to tell you.

Mostly because you will get addicted and then you won’t talk to me.

But I play on tetrisfriends.com

SOOO ADDICTING

David: Okay. Which game mode???

Cheryl: I play Survival.

And 6 P battle.

That’s fun.

David: This won’t last too long…

Cheryl: Or the 4 P one.

Haha, what won’t?

[3:20 AM] DAVE WILE!

UGH! TETRIS IS EVERYONE’S DOWNFALL!

Roaches

July 31, 2:35 AM

Cheryl: And my boss said he saw this huge roach the other day.

David: Oh man, if only I’d been there.

A new blog post.

Cheryl: Err, he said it was big.

So I told him I have this huge fear of roaches – totally understandable.

David: Yup.

Cheryl: Not even unusual.

David: They’re dangerous.

Cheryl: Haha, yeah.

And I said, they don’t really have a point.

David: Nope. Useless creatures.

Cheryl: And he goes, "Well, yes they do. They must have some purpose in life, otherwise they wouldn’t be here. It’s evolution."

And he goes on to say, "What if I thought you weren't pretty and you scared me. Should I then get rid of you?"

David: Suave.

Cheryl: THEN HE HAS THE AUDACITY TO SAY

"So you don’t like the way they look, kinda like the Nazis didn’t like the Jewish people."

And I’m thinking, "Wow, this conversation just took a turn."

Pets

June 22, 3:42 AM

David: He’s a golden retriever.

Cheryl: Awwww

That’s the kinda dog I imagined you having.

And you guys will go hiking together

And fishing.

Awwww

David: Yeah, about that....

Cheryl: Hahaha, it’s so true, isn’t it?

David: Oh yeah...

Hiking and fishing.

Constantly.

Cheryl: Haha, you just a good ol' country boi from North (South?) Carolinaaa!

David: SOUTHHHHH

Or excuse me:

SOUFFFF

June 22, 3:57 AM

Cheryl: Do you sometimes feel that you love your cats less than you love your dog?

How do you think that makes them feel?

David: Sometimes.

But that’s only with the set of cats I have now.

Cheryl: Are they lesser beings? No.

David: But they love me less than he does.

Cheryl: Are you a mean person? Yes.

David: NO, CHERYL

Accenture

June 19, 11:57 PM

Cheryl: Oh oh oh, breaking news. The guy intern is staring into his computer and smiling?? Naked pictures???

It was brief. The smile is gone now.

David: Lol. Definitely naked pictures.

Cheryl: Emily says: Naked pictures and then he minimized it.
OR OR OR
Porn.
But then he realized it was his sister.
Let me know if he leaves for the bathroom soon.

David: Lol.

[12:01] Did he go yet?

Cheryl: HAHAAH NO

YA NASTY

June 30, 11:49 PM

David: So do you know why your boss was all worked up that you were born in 1990?

Cheryl: Err, no why?

Are you going to tell me?

David: Oh. I don’t know. Just wondering.

How would I tell you why?

I don’t know this man, Cheryl.

Cheryl: Haha. Well, continuing about Elin

So I told Elin, and she goes, "Uh oh, what’s the legal age in Malaysia?"

HAHAHA, what a bitch.

David: What is the legal age in Malaysia?

Cheryl: 18, I think.

It’s 18 to drink. It has to be 18.

Go look it up. Wiki it, wiki man.

David: Will do.

16. He's fine.

Cheryl: OH MY GOD NO WAY

And fuck you.

July 13, 4:09 AM

Cheryl: I have to walk upstairs and collect something in 6 minutes. The countdown of doom.

And then I have to start cutting things up to decorate the board.

I knew that star-plus in kindergarten would finally get me far in my career.

David: Oh, that star-plus. Always the little genius, Cheryl.

Cheryl: Haha, she came down! No need to walk!

But yeah, every report card said, "Cheryl is a joy to have in the class."

That, and "Cheryl talks too much and socializes too much."

July 31, 5:31 AM, via e-mail:

OH MAN OH MAN OH MAN. I’m fooping HARD! And you’re gone of course, but I’m fooping hard! HARD. This stalker thing cannot be right. It just can’t be! OK, first of all I want to say sorry for leaving you hanging. Dave (boss Dave) pulled me aside to explain more stuff to me. Kinda interesting stuff but really INSIGNIFICANT compared to the amount of foop-age I am going through because of this stalker app.

Malaysia

June 23, 12:07 AM, regarding a proposed trip to the World Cup in 2010:

Cheryl: And how long do you think we will be there?

And I donno, South Africa isn’t exactly safe.

David: All good questions.

South Africa is totally safe, Cheryl.

You're in Malaysia.

That’s an upgrade.

Cheryl: We need to get all these questions down before we get ahead of ourselves.

OMG YOU DID NOT JUST SAY THAT

July 30, 2:07 AM

David: Oh man, your bio rocks.

Cheryl: Haha. I’m scared. How long is it?

I don’t want them reading a novel.

David: "Found within an ark of bulrushes in the boiling tropics of Malaysia, Cheryl Chan spent the first 18 years of her life developing the necessary language and social skills to go through life as an ordinary American. After receiving her education picking through the rice paddies of an ‘international school’ in the rural hinterlands of Kuala Lumpur, Cheryl boarded a Chinese junk bound for the golden shores of the New World and stumbled upon the American University, where she enrolled in 2008. She is now a business major in the Kogod School of Business, following the cancellation of the university's Rice Harvesting & Irrigation program after the Fall semester due to ‘lack of Malaysians.’ She has since found her niche in the athletic world, having been acclaimed ‘God's gift to Wii bowling’ and finding her calling in Internet Tetris."

Miscellany

July 8, 10:51 PM

Cheryl: You can let alcohol do your talking, you can let drugs do your talking, but do not let your penis do your talking.

David: He’s just so fucking vocal.

That’s the issue there.

Cheryl: Okay, end of discussion. This is way too weird for me.

July 29, 10:09 PM

David: Cheryl.

I can't get on FarmVille. I’m freaking out.

Cheryl: What what?

Haha, all I saw was I’m freaking out. Way to freak me out. Loser.

David: Not a loser, Cheryl.

My peppers! What will become of my peppers!!!

My dying pumpkins too. And rice. Although my rice won’t be ready for awhile.

Still, my peppers and pumpkins are wilting!

It goes onto the loading screen, but abruptly stops at like 90%. Inexplicably.

I don’t know what to do!!!

[10:26 PM] Cheryl: So how are your pumpkins going?

David: I can’t get to them :(

They’re probably dying as we speak.

Cheryl: Doesn’t the game just go on hold?

David: No, Cheryl. Things take hours to happen. They have to grow while you sleep and shit.

Cheryl: Oh my God.

David: Or you plant them early in the day and reap at night.

Cheryl: Haha, intense.

How realistic.

David: But they also wilt if you don’t care for them.

HOW REALISTIC. Exactly.

[10:29 PM] CHERYL WHY IS THIS HAPPENING???

Cheryl: Haha, Don’t ask me why. Such is life, Dave Wile.

David: Well, fuck. So much for my pumpkins.

Unless I can get this back before I go to sleep.

Cheryl: Haha. I have faith in it.

David: I hope you're right.

Cheryl: Haha, when am I not?

Don’t answer that question.

[11:44 PM] David: Still can’t get onto FarmVille :(

Cheryl: In good time, little grasshopper.

All in good time.

[12:06 AM] David: CHERYL CHERYL CHERYL CHERYL

All your prophesies have come true!

Cheryl: Yes yes yes?

David: I can get on FarmVille again!

I’m so relieved. Oh my God. I can’t even tell you. I was so nervous. I thought I’d never see my farm again.

Cheryl: HAHAH. Did anything die?

Man, I can’t stop smiling.

David: No, luckily. My cows were fittin’ to burst though.

Cheryl: Fitting to burst? As in they need to be milked? Well, get to it.

David: Yeah. I got to it. But they were looking uncomfortable.

Cheryl: Haha. So you don’t actually know? Not very scientific, is it?

David: Cheryl. It’s a game. The cows need to be milked after 24 hours. The same amount of time it takes peppers to grow. And soybeans. Rice takes 12 hours. Squash takes 2 days. Pumpkins take 8 hours. Strawberries 4 hours. Cotton and wheat take 3 days. Pineapples take 2 days. Chickens lay eggs every 24 hours. And sheep need to be sheared every 3 days. And pigs find truffles every 2 days.

It’s not scientific at all, in other words.

Cheryl: HAHA. OMG. That list was brilliant. Like a crash-course on Farming 101.

David: I can gift ducks now!!!

Cheryl: Haha, say what? Ducks aren’t gifts.

David: You can give gifts. In FarmVille. I can now gift ducks. And I just got sent another damn avocado tree. That makes 4 avocado trees for me.

Cheryl: But who do you give gifts to?

David: Other people with FarmVille.

Cheryl: And do they want gifts? You don’t seem happy about your gifts? Ungrateful?

David: Oh. I generally am. It’s just, Jesus. Another avocado tree. I really want a rabbit :(

But only Tara can give me a rabbit. She’s the only one at that level. Like I was really happy about my pig. And my cows and chickens and sheep. And a lot of my trees. But a fourth avocado is a little ridic.*

Cheryl: Haha. You're ridiculous

David: Yup

Cheryl: Oh boy.

These people never stop working.

And it’s almost lunch time.

Although today I brought my own lunch.

David: OH MY GOD I’M GOING TO KILL FARMVILLE

*By the way, as of 3:40 AM on August 8, 2009, I have 10 AVOCADO TREES. WHAT THE FUCKKKK????