Ever wonder what your vibe is?
A smart fella at Princeton has launched a website that allows people to get a feel for how others perceive an individual based on a photo. It is reminiscent of Hot-Or-Not.com, but I guess has more of a point than intertaining (this is a term I just coined, stands for "internet-entertaining") young men of the USAFA.
This is a great way to see how people perceive your image.
However, this is a cowardly way to get people's opinions of you. In the comments post your first impression of me (even if it is based solely on this weblog...that's right I said "weblog." Did you know that that is from what "blog" is derived, "dawg?")
Holler.
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3 comments:
are you an alumnus or student at the usafa?
Hey, when you moved to my school and I first saw you in fifth grade you had long curly hair and were wearing a black sweatshirt with black sweatpants. Therefore, I thought you were retarded. Thanks for mentioning me in your valedictorian address 7 years later. Go Cam the Ram!
Dear Mr. FantasticTerrific, I cordially offer my personal account of your first impression.
I arrived at the sporting grounds fashionably late, as most ladies of a Southern Gentility Upbringing would. I was pristine and pure in my white dress with matching umbrella. I had packed a lunch for my Matthew and I to enjoy after the sporting contest had ran its course. I was thrilled and anxious, anticipating such wonderful fellows that I imagined were the company my Matthew kept. He, after the contest of strength and agility, would stride off the grounds victorious, quick to my embrace and light kiss, and I, whilst in the crook of his sinewy limb, would be introduced as his Lady. What a beautiful spring day God had hatched for all!
My dreams were threatened immediately upon spreading a blanket on the viewing hill. I spied a young lad who was roaring. Yes, roaring, like a beast, like some veritable lion of a most disagreeable countenance. He was gloating and looming over another young gentleman, who apparently was just forcefully relocated to the ground by the boastful brute. The gentleman pouncing around in jubilation and celebration was clearly from the lower echelons of the social and economic realms, a dreg of society. The gentleman in recline was of a much less robust stature than his aggressor, which transformed the display of apparent victory from reasonable to pathetic. In a sporting contest where such rough measures are allowed without the measures of safety such as padding or restriction of hand placement to "down" an opponent, rarely are Ladies, especially, mind you, Ladies of Southern Gentility Upbringing found. However, it bears repeating, what a beautiful spring day God had hatched for all!
I spied from the top of the knoll a Lady. Well, I rendered her visually as a Lady after perplexed at how absurd it was for a gentleman to display, outside of a darkened parlor, a French braid upon his head. It was then, after comfortably managing to sit atop the blanket I had brought with my person, minding the display and folds of my dress, that I was invited to join the contest.
Pish-posh, reacted the little Victorian Lady residing in my mind. A Lady, especially one of a Southern Gentility Upbringing, should not engage in any activity that could be causal to a flustering or episode of perspiration, even if the matter at hand is that of procreation. My mother did not raise a Lady prone to jettisoning wisdom.
However, my mother also instilled in me the sense and sensibility to be hospitable and accommodating to those that could help my position, namely a young gentleman caller Matthew, whose father had direct control over all animal-hide trade in the Western region of Our God's Country.
And after all, the logic was in top order. Another Lady was needed for the sake of being fair, and the rules of forcible "downing" were as follows: Gentlemen were allowed to subdue their opponent's football advancing motion with a swift tackle if that opponent at hand was in fact a gentleman as well. If found to be a Lady, two hands tapped playfully on the back would suffice. As a jest, my Sister, French Braid, offered that the Ladies should be allowed to tackle one another. A giggle from my lips escaped, chased out by the absurdity of this notion. No one else seemed to share in my view of this irrational thinking, so I kept further displays of objection to myself, like a Lady. If a Lady was to find herself in the unscrupulous position of "downing" a gentleman, the two-hands procedure was deemed appropriate by this council of civilized denizens.
As Divination would have it, because He works in mysterious ways, my team affiliation was to be that of my Matthew's. A miniscule part of my being was saddened that we could not have been ordained as opponents temporarily, for how grand it would be for us to find ourselves in a position where I was to be "downed,” and he places two hands upon my backside, perhaps a hairs-width above my haunch! Scandalous, indeed! To demonstrate my allegiance, I wanted so desperately to embrace him, but recalling from previous occasions of mutual attendance, that would not be received too well by the to-be-embraced. Oh, how he frustrates me so!
We had our first team meeting, one of many to be had that day, in a formation affectionately and endearingly referred to as a "huddle." It was here that I observed the business and assigning of tasks that men-folk are so gifted at executing. It was so darling how serious and solemn each expression was as their attentions were fixated on the pen and paper that were my Matthew's index digit and palm. It was here in the huddle I took notice of the aforementioned brute, who was pacing the "line of scrimmage" (an invisible contraption which keeps the contest in the highest moral regard, much like Our Creator). I have read the story of Beauty and the Beast in French and English, but not until that instant could I utterly empathize with Belle's repulsion in the earlier parts of the tome. His face was marked with a sharp degree of asymmetry, destroying any chance for having a portrait successfully and respectfully painted save that of a strict profile.
His stature tended to corpulence, and although all participants in this grand game were beyond traditional schooling, his face showed evidence of a disturbed complexion.
My Matthew noticed my unsettling, even though I must attest I strive for keeping it to a level of most subtlety. I inquired if there was always roaring after a down. This was found most amusing by my colleagues in the "huddle," and my Matthew. My Matthew only sported the smile of a thousand dancing constellations, and instructed me to be most certain and attentive in the handling of the transfer of the football from his person to mine.
Anxious to please my Love, I adhered to my "route" and received the football via a "pass" with little difficulty. I was no more than seven lengths of linen away from the "line of scrimmage." I deftly dodged one gentleman, and accelerated my pace beyond that of the other Lady on the "iron-grid." My years of carefree youth revisited me in gushes: the frolicking through Father's tobacco fields and the racing of Nefarious Nancy, our three-legged terrier amongst the cotton patches. My ebullience escalated at the prospect of registering a score, as it would be most conducive to speeding the askance by Matthew to my Father for my hand. Visually checking for the prospects of being "downed," I maneuvered my head with haste in a motion not unlike that of a mechanical swivel, a Lady-like, mechanical swivel.
And there he was. Roaring.
Traversing a most direct path with regard to yours truly, was our aforementioned curly-haired pig-bully! His stumps of limbs awkwardly and rapidly plodded a course of rendezvous. For as slow as his trajectory was, it was primarily due to his proximity that rendered him a blur of green-jersey, white untoned arms, and spirals of brandy-colored hair atop his shifted face. Again, it bears mentioning that it was not by speed he gained his strategic positioning (keep in mind his frame of unathletic corpulence), but rather by what can crassly be referred to as happenstance.
I braced myself for the creature's touching of my skin, even though I had but a sliver of a moment to perceive what was transpiring. As if a winter chinook had ceased my bathing form, my skin took to gooseflesh, or "crawling", as I heard a member of the proletariat once reference.
The macabre expectation was for the paws of this chimera to be molesting-ly flopped upon my back, or, taking in account his exuding proclivities for the perverse and base; my haunch.
Rather, his arms were not reaching for my form in the least. Why, they were being reared back, as if he were a detestable instrument of warfare, some spring-loaded rifle being cocked.
The brutality of the situation was far too imminent at this juncture. I indeed was to be made subject to his touch. Half in fear and half in want of security, I clung tightly to the football. Thoughts, regrets, and stunted aspirations raced through my head. Where was my Matthew when he was needed most? Why had I so obstinately insisted on meeting my Matthew here instead of waiting until the Cotton Gin Dance later that evening? Oh, my insistence has landed me a taste of the Day of Reckoning, where all Delilahs are punished for their incessant insistence.
Impact.
I was in his arms, those putrid tentacles of flesh and cold adipose, and although my feet moved much like they were before the monster's embrace - touch the ground they did not.
I screamed. I screamed bloody murder in attempts that a County Marshall or appropriate figure representing the authority of law and order would be alerted and could then intervene. There was an agreement! Ladies are Ladies, after all! After the exhalation of screaming, the realization occurred that my motion had ceased and that I was simply being held.
I quickly voiced that I wished to be returned to the earth. The scene must have been truly ludicrous - yours truly, a heiress to all that is Southern Gentility's Finest, in the midst of a field being suspended in the air by the brute force of a yeti.
I screamed again. I screamed "foul." He had violated the rules of sport when involving the participation of Ladies having forgone the procedure of two-hands. Brute! Savage! Rapist! I demanded if he had anything remotely intelligible to utter on his behalf that it be said before he was properly tarred and feathered for the assault of a Lady!
And he opened his uneducated mouth, his veritable "maw of the shipyards," and spoke without any trace of eloquence or civilized upbringing. I believe his words, his very line of reasoning was
"I did not tackle you, Lady."
The audacity! And to heap insult upon egregious injury the gentlemen of the field agreed. My heart was shattered to utter perdition when it was the voice of my dearest Matthew that sounded first in agreement to this blackguard logic. Why, the gentleman of slight stature who earlier endured the wrath of this wanton, heartless monstrosity asserted that a tackle it was not, rather merely a "cessation of motion executed via controlled force."
Hmmph!
I hope that sockdologizing old mantrap perishes slowly and then all at once!
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This account inspired by those with fine tastes.
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