Photo Wednesdays

So I'm gonna start something new here, every Wednesday I'm just gonna post a picture. It might be one of my own (hopefully they will mostly be my own) or one from the internet. Enjoy?

Summer Love

I have awesome news people. After two summers, I finally found her. A summer love I want to be with for the remainder of my life until it all fades to black and i go six feet under, kick the bucket, push daisies, pay the piper, and ya know, die.

Her name is Anne DeMarini. Size fourteen, right handed, and most important, just getting to that point where she's perfectly broken in.

I really hope this freaked some people out "Sam's dating a girl named Anne? She's "broken in"? Wait till I tell you something else, she's not white. She has a fine grey and black skin that feels leathery to the touch. Oh yeah. I'm talking about my new baseball glove but if I just said "I love my new baseball glove" that wouldn't be like me, gotta spin it as a giant joke like I do with much of my life. It's why girls shoot me dirty looks and punch me when I talk.

Actually, you should have known when her last name was "DeMarini" I was lying. I'd never fall for an Italian...

So yeah, I named the glove Anne, the brand is DeMarini, the model line is Diablo (I originally put "Diablo DeMarini" but that didn't' sound like a girl's name at all), and I love it. I haven't bought a new one in years and I had never owned a softball/outfielders glove (bigger pocket) so I rolled into Sports Authority and put down the cash for a new one. And I love it. It re-awakened my love for baseball.

I've been playing catch a lot with my friends and brother and a weekly (well, kind of) game with Jose and his amigos down in Riverdale Park. It's got me going back to the batting cages (The only place I bat is at Rocky Gorge Four Seasons Batting Cages, Driving Range, and Mini Golf. Family owned and operated since 1968." I have an endorsement deal.)

I was sitting on Facebook and a friend messages me with a question, I obviously know everything so I happily agreed to make her day and answer said question. She was fielding a softball team and wanted to know if I was interested.

Hell. Yes. I've been digging around for a team to play on for months now. I didn't want to drive to NoVa and I couldn't find any closer, but luckily my friends always come through for me in the clutch as they always do.

So yeah, I'm pumped. I have a friend that's going to come play with me out there and we start training soon. Or if you're me, you're a BAMF and you start busting your ass as soon as you're done typing this blog post. Hitting, fielding, catching, throwing, and over all just being a freaking beast. We need a secret handshake like they have in the majors. And I wanna do a lot of "Forearm bumps" because I love them. Me and Jose Canseco used to do them all the time, when he returned my calls. Ass.

So yeah, I guess after our first game (Tuesday) I'll do a little update on training camp, meeting the team, batting practice, and of course game one. I hope there's an awesome legendary team name.

I'm extremely excited. If you couldn't tell by this post that was basically a very long Tweet, I mean, I coulda just said "I bought a new glove and joined a softball team. #beer". I end most of my Tweets with #beer. Like "Went to Sears #beer." Makes people think about how sober I am.

Billy-Bob the Caterpillar.

So as many of you know I love to write. On legal pads, notebooks, napkins, hands, or walls. In trains, cars, planes, bathrooms, beds, kitchens, and restaurants.

I like to write about beating the odds, I like writing about sports, a lot of sports. Hell, I even wrote a few songs, speeches, and the occasional random eulogy (They're not all about people I know, most of them are just random characters I come up with in my brain piece). I just love writing. Always have and hopefully I always will.

I dunno how this fascination started for me, I guess I know pretty quick that math and science weren't really my thing at all. I didn't like them but I did love history, english, and sports. And I've always bean a talker, so I guess writing was my way of talking when everyone around me wanted me to just shut the, uh, well, let's say they wanted me to shut the "front door".

Hopefully one day I'll get paid to do this, how awesome would that be? I've always wanted to write a column like what Rick Reilly writes for ESPN.com and the one he used to write for "Sports Illustrated". He would go behind the stories of the really big name athletes and instead write about the quarterback at some random D-III college in "YourTown, YourState". It would be more about the human element behind sport, not so much the star athlete, the giant contract, the asshole head coach, or the off field problems for a primadonna wide receiver. It was about the college football and basketball team driving off campus to pick up a school booster who had been in a wheelchair since he was seven. The human condition. Stories that made you laugh, cry, smile, and gave you chills.

So I wanted to share with you all something that I think only three people have seen in my lifetime. It's the first ever short story I wrote, or at least it's the first one that's recorded and will go down in history one day. It was literally written on the day that I turned ten, March 14th, 2000.

I didn't edit it at all, this is the straight uncut dope. Best of the best, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I still do. I almost died I laughed so hard when I re-discovered it.

And now, without further delay, "The Caterpillar Story" by SamWow Carroll...

"One day there was a caterpillar named Billy-Bob who lived in a dump. He thought he was very ugly. Finally, more caterpillars moved in. One day someone came and dumped it out.

So he went out into the world. He had to cross the ocean. So he made a boat of sticks an went off. But he got sucked up in a waterspout. He landed in Europe. There he made a cocoon.

He emerged a butterfly. He flew to the United States but he got took under by a tidal wave. He flew over a battlefield. He got his wings blown off."

The picture is backwards, I'm sure you all can deal with it. It's just proof that this epicness exists. Ignore the stupid "Dove Prayer".

Summertime and The Livins Easy

So about two weeks ago I went to a wine (vomit) festival in a little old place I call "Three Hours From Home", Virginia with a friend and his co-workers. It was called Valley Fest, and they had a lot of wine, beer, and some awesome bar-b-que but I noticed something far more important there that I should have wrote about two weeks ago.

Girls. More specifically, girls in sundresses.

That's right, my Official Sign of Summer's Start. Screw Memorial Day, when pools open, the first day out of school, or any of that other crap. For me, summer starts with the first girl I see in a sundress. And flip-flops. And avaitors. And who has blonde hair, a Southern accent, brown eyes, stands about 5'5", and that has a rich father who will see me as the son he could never have and shower me with love and upon meeting me (A) writes me into his will, (B) allows me to marry his daughter, and (C) let's me choose which of the fine automobiles I would like to drive from his stable of fine automobiles.

This woman has been elusive to say the least and I hope every girl I've dated that wants me back (Haha, none of them want me back.) will read this and get on the ball.

I feel those jokes could have offended some people. Oh well, like Mike Birbiglia once said, "Some people laughed, some people didn't, so I was one for one."

Now, back on topic (for a brief time until I go off on another random tangent). Summer is finally here. I spent all of Memorial Day hanging out with my boys Dave, Josh, and James (aka "Cheeks") in "America's Largest Whites Only Country Club" also known as Anne Arundel County.

We had a "blasty-blast bitch tits Ninja!" to put it as Dave would. He doesn't really talk like that, but he does talk in catch phrases and those are some of them so I guess that counts. By the way, the random tangent counter for this post in up to #2. Lifetime counter for this blog is probably in the low seventies, it's like this blog is just my brain on the internet; random crap until I find a point and try like hell to stick with it. That was #3.

So yeah, summer is finally here. Time for shorts, flip flops, tank tops, bathing suits, sunglasses, convertibles, and, ya know, stuff.

It's a time to hit the beach with your friends and family. Which is awesome. Get that beach house, hotel room on the boardwalk, or tent on the beach. Whatever it is. Buy some sunscreen, a kite, ice, soda, water, towels, beach ball, beach umbrella, and a cooler. And beer. A ton of beer. Like, cases upon cases of Natty Boh (Gotta represent that Mura-land {Maryland}) and get blitzed and jump into something or drop the Atomic Elbow on a pool float.

It's a beautiful thing to be on the beach. My family rents a big ole house in the Outer Banks and just parties it up for a week. There's beer, card games, a pool table, movies, a poker table, a fooseball table, and most importantly, two hot tubs and a pool. And most years, there's a pretty banging fireworks show that the family puts on (Carroll's tend to be pyromaniacs) and we usually get a god bonfire going down there on the beach and spend a few hours sitting around it talking and drinking and just having a blast.

What else comes with summer? I guess going to the pool? I haven't had a pool membership since Glenn Dale Country Club closed down like, fifteen years ago but I'll always remember four things about that place. One, the water fountain tasted like copper. Two, the floor of the bathroom felt really weird on bare feet. Three, that one life guard was wayyy hot, even when I was six, I think she's the reason I have a thing for pierced belly buttons. Weird. Four, Coach PeeWee tried to teach me how to dive, still working on it Coach!

I like going to baseball games too in the summer. My friends and I went to a Baysox game well before "Summer Dress Day 2011" but I went to one after that so I'll write on it anyways. Baseball games are great whether you like baseball or not. It's you, your friends, beers, hot dogs, nice weather, and occasionally fireworks.

The first one we just kinda heckled, well, not just kinda. We heckled the crap out of the Richmond Flying Squirrels. We laughed, talked, ate, drank, and been merry (that's terrible english). And we took a ton of pictures, one of which is sitting next to me on my desk, and that picture will travel with me for years to come. I love this picture, it's got a lot of my favorite, most beloved people in it and soon I'll get one with all of those damn people in it. "That's Mahoney!"

That's really all I have for right now. It felt kinda random, but whatever. I'm confident and I liked it so it ain't nothing but a thang chicken wang (Proper people would say "Nothing but a thing, chicken wing" but I roll fresh outta "A Livable Community" aka "Gawjus" Prince George's so I say it different. Tangent #4.)

I've really slacked hard on updating this stuff, I'm gonna fix that. I need more ideas though, please please please if there's a story, opinion, or something you want to read about or that you want to write about, let me know.

Gotta love the WMATA

So as many of you know, I work just off the National Mall in Washington DC. Many of you also know I take the Metro to work from New Carrollton or College Park to Smithsonian. And some of you text me and ask "So do you see any weird stuff on the Metro?" "Do you get mugged on the Metro?" and my personal favorite, "Do you remember when Dave left us standing on the Metro platform as he rolled away to 'The Rally to Restore Sanity'?"

The answer to the last question is yes, that was an unforgivable event. But not really. I also have never been mugged on the Metro, even though my Mom likes to remind me the last three stops my train makes (Cheverly, Landover, and New Carrollton) are the top three crime centers for the Metro. I don't know if that's true or not.

As for the first question, yes, I have seen some weird shit on the Metro and around the Metro stations so I'm sitting here at 3AM typing this post so I can share the stories with you. Yay!

Weird thing number one, codenamed "Fat Nikki Minaj". So I get on my train, sit down, and get out my iPod and put in the headphones (Whoah Black Betty, bam-a-lam, whhhhoah Black Betty) without looking up. I wish I hadn't looked up.

First off, I'll say Nikki Minaj is ugly as sin and really lacks talent. Bam, sorry if I just rocked your worlds, Minaj fans. "What did you see when you looked up, Bro?" I saw fat Nikki Minaj. It was a woman who must have weighed about two hundred and eighty pounds, taking up the whole seat, wearing about four gallons of make-up, a black tank top, and wait for it...what seemed to be leather pants, that were pink.

They say you can't look away from a train wreck, well you also can't look away from a woman the size of a VW Beetle dressed kinda like a hooker at 6AM. And myself and about ten of my fellow Orange-Liners just kept stealing glances at it, I wanted to take a picture, but instead I got out the old legal pad and wrote down "Write about Fat Nikki Minaj" and this blog post was born.

I saw a lady in nurses scrubs pick up someone's leftover "Washington Post" and look at it for a second before ripping a strip off, throwing it on the floor, looking at it there, then repeating the aforementioned activity till there was a pile of ripped up "Washington Post" on the floor.

I mean, what the hell. She either wanted to make a pinata when the train pulled into Federal Center SW and decided not too by the time she got off the train and New Carrollton, or she needed to pee and needed the newspaper for it's power to adsorb and maybe to wipe. I wish I had a clever nam for this one, but it literally just happened today (well, yesterday, seeing how it is now 3-07AM, I need to re-fill my prescription cuz apparently when I say "Sleep is overrated" I'm wrong. I have to be at work in like, four hours, time for another cup of coffee...).

Let's see what else...

There's always those kinda weird wet spots on the train at like, 5-50AM, I'm one hundred percent sure that those are from homeless people peeing. I once stepped out of my car in the morning, looked down, and saw a condom in my parking space. That was kinda weird, but I didn't really think twice about it. If I had gotten out of my car to no condom, then gotten back into my car and saw a condom there, then I'd have problem with that.

So I have only one other story that kinda trumps them all in my opinion. I was walking around the Mall one day after lunch and saw something that has forever changed my life.

If you've never been to the Mall, it's a gravel walkway on each side with benches facing the grass fields between, lined by museums, government offices, and monuments. Well, these benches attract all sorts of people. Tourists looking to rest wary feet and children, old couples looking to just sit around in white shoes, pants, and visors, government employees like myself enjoying lunch or light conversation, and finally, the homeless.

The homeless, or more specifically one of the homeless, let's call him "Tony Romo". I've seen "Tony Romo" around the area before, he's usually sitting around the Navy Memorial behind the Archives building, guarding his cart full of needles (there's no needles in his cart...that I can see), sleeping bags, tin foil, and American flags. There's a story behind those flags and I need to hear it in the worst way, but that's not the point.

So I saw "Tony Romo" sitting on a bench near Constitution Avenue throwing some random tooth-sized things at his feet, attracting pigeons who were eating whatever it was. I looked away thinking that he was just feeding pigeons, people feed pigeons, people usually don't do something crazy and drastic when you look back at them feeding pigeons.

"Tony Romo" did something crazy and drastic.

"Tony Romo" f*cking kicked a pigeon. Like, he pulled his leg back and swung like Adam Vinetari winning a Super Bowl. He drew this pigeons in with malicious intent, I was speechless. All the damn birds could do was scatter all about the place, all I could do is pick my jaw up off the ground and walk by like I didn't just see that happen. I wish I had more words or jokes to sprinkle on top of the ice cream sundae that is the story of pigeon kicking, but I think it sums itself up so damn well I don't want to taint it with more words.

So yeah, that's just the best of my Metro tales and DC tales. There will be more, and more other weird stories of stuff I've seen but this is all for now.

He. F*cking. Kicked. The. Pigeon.

Holy ball(s).

Guess Who's Back?

Oh hey there, I didn't see you over these piles of paperwork (non-existent paperwork, unless all my legal pads and copies of "Sports Illustrated" from last year count as paperwork) and the fact that "Words With Friends" and Wordfeud have taken over my life (for the record, in between both those games my record is like, 0-400). This is random.

So yeah, the blogging took a back seat, or maybe I treated it like "Home Alone" and I'm just getting back home on the truck with John Candy. Truth be told, I was kind of in a mindset to just put the blog in the ground and kill it (in that order, I like to make sure you'll fit in the grave before I get out the old tarp and shovel). But I'm not going too, this blog keeps me writing and keeps you guys smiling and keeps some people wondering "What's wrong with this guy?"

There's nothing wrong with me, I'm just that awesome. And Remember how I told you I was gonna buy my kids gold plated monkeys? This blog needs to keep going if that's still going to happen, the Nigerian Prince that e-mailed me told me he has a few extras I can have if I send my social security number and credit card information. Done and done, Prince Amukamara. Haha, I think a few people will get that joke, and if you don't, Google him. He's a real person.

I guess the reason I'm back doing this today is that since Sunday, people have been busting on me to get back to doing this. Family, friends, "Bluth from DeLuth" (Shout out to my boy Bluth! Go Brewers! You loser. For those of you I haven't told, "Bluth" is a guy who found my blog somehow and started reading and talking to me. He's an awesome guy, loves beer, baseball, football, and his Golden Gophers. He's not really a loser either.), basically a lot of people have been getting on me about starting to post again, so here I am.

Also, during my extensive break (I dunno if it was extensive, it has felt like a really long time), I went back a re-read all the stuff from my writing portfolio. I've got old book reports from grade school, the "Butterfly Story" from my "ME Book" (4th grade, SPX, everyone who made one should go back and re-read what they wrote, it's hilarious stuff in mine) and one day I will post that story on here, maybe when I get home today. It's a beautiful tale.

Uh, what else was in there? A note that Anne and I kept passing back and forth to each other from 8th grade (also awesome stuff), a lot of stuff from my creative writing and poetry classes, and just pieces of novels and other books I've failed to finish.

But I realized something as I re-read all this stuff. I "grade" my own writing too hard and I'm far too hard on myself. Looking back, I had a tendency to over edit, rip out words that "weren't good enough" and damn was I stupid. The rough drafts were so much better than the final product.

I think the problem is in the back of my head, every great writer had some sort of problem, Hemingway, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Capote, and Poe were all drunks or struggled with alcohol and depression and there's countless writers who thought that the things they wrote weren't up to snub with (fill in the blank) and just blew up what they wrote (I literally blow up bad blog posts, one brick of C4, boom, then I go buy a new computer). That's what went on in my head, and it turns out that's not true at all, I should just write what I want instead of writing something, hating it, and not letting it see the light of day.

I want to go down as a great writer. Maybe not in the same realm as Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Edgar Allen Poe, or Chiuna Achebe (maybe not a house hold name, but he's by far my favorite author and his book "Things Fall Apart" is still one of my favorites all thanks to Mr. Haller who taught my world literature class at DaMafUh) and the others I mentioned above, but that's okay. Those men are legends.

So I may never become a household name, write a novel, pen a memoir, collaborate on a script, but hell, compose a speech for a politician, but all that's just icing on the cake. I'd be thrilled writing a column for a newspaper (or should I just stop saying newspaper and say website? God I hate the fact that if I do become a columnist, I probably won't get to literally hold my first column in my hands, but that's an anger I'll let out another time. Wow, that was a slight off topic rant), editing some poor smhuck's drafts, or just writing this blog in my spare time. Which brings me to my next topic...

Women.

Not really, just wanted to throw an off speed pitch by ya there. "Cuz it's one, two three strikes you walk..."

What I really wanted to do with these closing statements is thank you, the readers. No joke, if I could, I would find every last one of the people who read this thing and hug you. You're allowing me to keep doing this, if no one read this, I'd probably be moving up to Buffalo right now. So thank you for the comments, ideas, feedback (which I guess is redundant cuz I already said comments, my blog, my rules), and for all the love.

So that's all I got, my grand return to the stage, and the marking of the new start of a lot of things in my life. Just remember I want some more guest posts, some more ideas, and any feelings you guys have on beards (hopefully that will be my next post) you can send to my inbox on Facebook. If you put it on my wall or comment it on a status, then everyone can see what the post will be about and it's totally worthless, it's like if I told you at the end of Fast Five, ********* gets arrested, ******* & **** have a baby, and **** ****** is naked. None of those are accurate, at least I think they're not, they're just there to prove a point.

I'm back.

Untitled Post Part Two

I once did acid with Morgan Freeman.

Yeah, you're probably pretty jealous right now, but wait...I didn't really do acid with Morgan. I had a dream where I did though.

You're probably wondering two things - (A) What the hell is Sam writing about? (B) What's Morgan like on acid?

Well, the answer to your first question is I'm writing this post about my dreams, sleep problems, and sleepwalking. I decided to do it when I dreamed I dropped acid with Morgan Freeman, even though I wouldn't know acid if you dropped it right in front of me.

In the dream they were just little tea-bag looking things(which after some research I found out isn't what they look like) that we bought from a dealer outside of PG County Stadium (Home of the Baysox) after a game then went to Chik-Fil-A and went crazy on those Spicy Chicken sandwiches. Me and Morgan both hate pickles, or at least he hates them in dream world.

Now, for your second question. Morgan is awesome to do acid with. We talked about how he made Evan and Bruce "Almighty", how he drove Mrs. Daisy, how he redemption-ed Shawshank, how he summed up all fears, and how he helped make sure to keep baby out of the corner. Then we high fived, he walked into the parking lot, flipped a SmartCar with his bare hands, and rode off in his sleigh which was pulled by Matthew Broderick, Denzel Washington, Jay Pharoah, and Cary Elwes.

So onto the next dream, this one is extremely normal compared to the one above.

And note the fact that there's no semi-witty segway, I'm swinging for the fences here.

This next dream happens a lot, like, four or five times a week.

It always starts out the same way, with me running through different places whether it's down the hallways from episodes of "Scooby Doo" (You know the ones with all the doors), running around DeMatha, Maryland's campus, Dave's condo, the Taco Bell in Severna Park, Ace in Severna Park, around a couch or table, or sprinting through the set of "Community".

I run for a while, turn a corner and there she is, "Mystery Blonde Girl".

I've never seen her face, she just keeps running away from me so I keep chasing her and chasing her but I never catch her. I ususally just run after her for a while until I trip and fall or run into something and next thing you know, I'm awake lying on the floor of my room.

This dream has been going on for maybe four months, but "Mystery Blonde Girl" has made guest apperances in my dreams for at least a year, it's weird. Really weird. But at least it's "Mystery Blonde Girl" instead of Jake Gyllenhall.

The next dream is easily explained, I have dreams where my friends murder me. Well, I can't really explain it, they just kill me. It's that simple. It's always a different friend and always a different way for me to die. Thanks guys.

And if you're wondering, Wes gets me with the machete, Kelly hits me with her car, Dave shoots me, Mikey stabs me, Mike beats me with a baseball bat, BoomKing uses a bazooka (I can actually explain that), and Brian uses nun-chucks.

My friends mercilessly beat, stab, chop, shoot, eat (the one who ate me will surprise people, I'll just say it's a she), and hit me until I'm fading out and seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, then I wake up. Next time I see them, I'm secretly mad, concerned, and very alert. They're really weird dreams and I don't think my friends would kill me, but I can't be too sure cuz as soon as I trust them, it's over and I'm getting chopped up like in the end of "Things Fall Apart".

Okay, so now we're going to get into the final piece of this freak-show I've presented that just happens to be my sleeping habits. Sleepwalking.

The first time I sleepwalked (slept-walked? I dunno) I just remember going to bed in my room and waking up on the couch. That's happened a few times and it's never a big deal, just kinda weird but hey, at least I'm staying in the house and on the ground.

This next story took the game to the next level. This story is triple overtime with game seven on the line. This story is streets ahead. This story is, well, epic. And one I'll tell till the day i die.

So, if you've played "Call of Duty Black Ops" you remember the scene where you're the guy in the space suit walking across the runway to get into the Blackbird to fly around and guide the squadron. If you didn't let me paint you a picture.

It's a hazy day, you're in a yellow space suit walking across the tarmac, saluting the men out there with you. Then you get to a flight of stairs, you walk up them, get into the cockpit, close the hatch, and you take off to start the mission.

Now, let me set up my part of the story. I have a "split level" house and all that means is that when you walk in my front door, you can go upstairs or downstairs from the landing.

Below is a fine artist's rendition of the layout of the bottom half of the steps. He's probably pretty proud of the fern-thing he drew, so be sure to compliment it.

Ok, so that arrow is pointing to a major player in this story. Like, what Jason Campbell was to the Redskins. A big deal. That arrow is pointing to a part of the ceiling that drops down and slants, giving you less clearance. That's really all the set up I guess this needs so here we go.

I dreamt (Dreamed? You'd think an English "major" would know) that I was walking up the stairs about to climb into my jet, the hatch closed and I did the final checks, throttled the engines, worked the elevator flaps, and flipped a bunch of random switches before looking out the window and giving the thumbs up to the men on the ground who quickly pulled the equipment away so I could take off.
Then I kicked the throttle open and, felt the jet burst from under me, and then...

I woke up.

Well, I didn't just wake up, I woke up perched on the landing, toes curled over it, arms swept back like wings, and knees bent, ready to launch into the air and go defeat the Communists. That's a terrifying way to wake up and now I'll tell you why...

I was ready to explode into the air, and as we all know from that nice little arrow I drew in that awesome artwork I made, if I had jumped off the landing, there's a 100% chance my head would have smashed into that piece of the ceiling so hard that it would have been one of those moments where my body kept moving, but my face stayed in one spot. The ultimate clothesline.

In between my face smahing into the ceiling and the roughly seven step drop that would have followed (if I missed the ceiling, I would have just smashed through the drywall at the bottom of the steps which would have also been painful), that would have hurt. Alot. That shook me up pretty bad when I was able to step off the ledge and get my head straight.

That would have be tough to explain to the parents when they woke up and saw their son lying in a bloody crumpled heap on the floor. But I know what I would have said when I realized they were there and they saw me. "Mission accomplished sirs. Our country is safe, and the wind of God is at our backs." I dunno why I would have said that, I dunno why the wind of God is at our backs, but it just was.

So yeah, that pretty much wraps this one up. There might be some more weird dreams posts and I would love for someone to tell me what they think the "Mystery Blonde Girl" dreams are trying to tell me. Actually that would be awesome if someone could, cuz those really bother me.

Also before I forget if you have a beard/have had a beard/are a beard lover, I want your input soon. I'm doing a post on beards, the pros and cons, and the perception on beards from guys and girls alike. I have a few people I want to talk to, but any input is welcome and will be used.

I also want some more guest posts cuz then stuff gets posted that I don't have to do any real work on! You can write it on any subject, just email me (samcarroll9@gmail.com), Facebook me (SamWow Carroll), find me on Twitter (@therealSamWow), call me if you got my number, or write it down and just hand it to me.