NERD ALERT! NERD ALERT!

In continuing my irrational celebrity crush series, I have decided to coincide this week's crush with the return of my new second favorite television show, Battlestar Galactica. ("What's first?" Why, LOST of course. Are you even paying attention?)

For those of you unfamiliar with BSG, congratulations! You are not a nerd! Please leave my site immediately. Here's a little synopsis of what Battlestar is all about.

The cylons were created by man.
They rebelled.
They evolved.
They look and feel human.
Some are programmed to think they are human.
There are many copies.
And they have a plan.
And for the love of Jesus,
Are they frakking HOT!

My latest celebrity crush is Tricia Helfer, who plays the Cylon known as Number 6, or Caprica Six, or Six, or "that hot chick in the barely there outfits, and who routinely appears almost completely nude," as I refer to her (God bless cable). Here is a picture of her.

Wait, that's not the one.

Here it is:

Wait, no still not right.

Getting closer. Here, try this one:

Ok, that's better. But still not quite right.

Here, try again:

Hmmmm. Nope. I'm not sure that that's the "person" that I'm looking for. Perhaps...... Ahh, yes. I 've found it:

Thatta girl. So, you see what drew me to this show.







Excellent plot development, of course. Why? What were you thinking?

What? You sick bastards! Sure, she's pretty. But come on! To watch a show based strictly on the outward appearance of one solitary character. How shallow do you think I am? There is so much more to this show that I have yet to even touch on.


There's also Starbuck:




And Boomer:




President Roslin:




And of course, Bill Adama:



Oh, Edward James Olmos, when are we going to stop with this charade and make the mad, passionate love we were born to make together?


So you can see, there is far more than one (very) beautiful character that draws me to Battlestar. There's a whole slew of beautiful people. Honestly, it's a tremendous show with the same amount of, if not more, plot and character development as LOST. It delves into the psyche of people who are on the brink of extinction, and gives a stark snapshot into the state of the human mind. It is extraordinarily dark yet thoroughly watchable.




But I'll be honest. It's mainly about the half naked lady.

I can see that you and me aren't gonna be friends.

Look, I'm not a snob. Far from it. I am a highly idiosyncratic man. So I am not unfamiliar with odd tastes. But here are a few ways to assure that I will never be your friend. Now, keep in mind, having one or two (or God help you, three) of these quirks may not wholly disqualify you from any chance at my friendship. It doesn't help, but it doesn't disqualify. But any more than three, and I will pretend to not know you as we pass on the street. I will not give you the time if you asked for it. I may even not let you pass on the crosswalk if I am in my car. The law be damned! So with that in mind, here are some ways you can avoid being my friend.

First way, Put bumper stickers on your car. I really don't care about who you plan on voting for, or what radio station you listen to. I'm not interested in knowing who your copilot is, or what your other car may be. And I especially don't give a rat's ass about how smart your kid is. Because as smart as he is, he wasn't smart enough to ward you off of putting that "Kucinich '08" sticker on the back of your Honda Element.

You find Dane Cook funny. This is a pet peeve of mine. He is not funny. He is the devil. He spouts off crass remarks cloaked by his boyish smirk. Using the word "fuck" does not necessarily make something funny. Try making a joke without it. Take your Ryan Reynolds lookalike, semen joke filled, mispronouncing ass back to Arlington and stay there. The world will, for the first time, thank you.

Enjoy Martin Lawrence "films". Do I really need to say more? If you enjoyed Big Momma's House, or Bad Boys, or Blue Streak, or Big Momma's House 2, well, I just feel sorry for you. You were born without the ability to detect talentless shills masquerading as comedians.

Hate on golf. Look, I don't care if you don't like golf. It's not for everybody, I understand that. But please, don't tell me how boring it is. Or how pointless it is. Or how you could do it if you wanted to. Because you couldn't. It's very hard. I've been playing for almost 20 years, and I am still only classified as "Good." So please, leave it alone. I don't mock your hobbies. Tell you that knitting sucks. Or that doing crosswords puzzles makes you infertile. And I certainly don't tell you how much I hate your kid. That last one may not seem applicable, but it is. Golf is my 20 year old kid. And while he may not be the best kid you could have, he is always there for me when I need him.

Have terrible taste in music. This can easily be summed up by one phrase; "I don't like the Beatles." Oh, you don't? Yeah I can see tha.... Get the fuck out of my sight! Go back to your car and put on your Kelly Clarkson CD, or the latest bullshit from Nelly or Kanye West. You can have all of that top 40 crap. I will gladly take The Beatles. You are obviously not smart enough to appreciate them. So we as a music listening public actually thank you for your sheer idiocy.

Watch American Idol. This goes along with the last one, and is actually confirmation of it. I think I have said all I need to say on the subject.

Tell me why your car is awesome. Yeah. It gets how many miles to the gallon? No shit? And those speakers pump out how many amps? Sweet. And how awesome is the stereo system that you managed to get thrown into the deal? Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, SHUT UP! I DON'T... CAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRREEEEEEEE! If I had a gun, I wouldn't shoot you. I would shoot your fucking car. And watch you melt into an inconsolable mess. Nothing would make me happier than to see you wrap that car around a tree. But you would be safe. Because that awesome car had the best airbags money could buy.

Listen to your IPOD while I am attempting to carry on a conversation with you. Could you be a little more rude? This is the most dismissive thing you could do to anyone, EVER! Dude, forget about looking for that tune by Wilco you have been trying to get me to listen to for a month, but couldn't find it due to the sheer immensity of your epic music collection. Please listen to me before I take your precious IPOD and drop it into a bucket of water. And don't do the whole "one earphone in, one earphone out" deal. I know where your attention is falling. Don't placate me with your hollow actions. Is it so hard to carry on a conversation these days that that conversation absolutely MUST have a soundtrack? Honestly!

You don't appreciate white trashy foods. Look, I grew up white trash. I still am white trash. I like cheese from a can. Doritos = Heaven. I am not averse to buying Wal Mart brand soda. Dr. Thunder, I presume? Please, don't belittle my eating habits. I don't think you are eating beluga caviar every night. And we can't all make our own low sodium potato chips for your health conscious diet. Some of us don't really care how fat we get. I live in the moment. I live for today! If I want to eat a hot dog covered in Cheez Whiz, that's my prerogative.

Mispronunciation. Don't say "anticdote" when you mean anecdote. Or "probally" when you mean probably. Or nuke-you-lar when you mean new-cle-ar. Or "expecially," oh how I HATE "expecially". And don't use the word irregardless. It's a self contained double negative. Saying regardless will be just fine. And please don't try and say wolf and actually say "woof". You just sound stupid and ignorant. And please, dear lord, please, stop calling Target "Tar-zhay". I will cut you. Seriously.



Those are just a few of the things you can do to cement your status as "not one of my friends". Think I'm full of shit? Try me. I'll IP ban your ass so fast, your head will spin! Just as soon as I figure out what an IP is. And also how I would go about banning it.


______________________________________________

Same day update!

I feel I may have left a false impression. The impression that I don't like Wilco. Totally untrue. I don't like you telling me that I should like Wilco. You are a hipster, who follows trends. And the trendy thing to do is to like Wilco. I, on the other hand, am a person who actually enjoys decent music. So, I naturally gravitate towards good bands. Wilco being one. But please, don't tell me that "I have to listen to this song by this "new band" Wilco." It makes me want to punch you.

I give you the Great Retardo!

Why am I such a moron. I've spent the better part of the last hour trying to increase my photoshop acumen. To no avail. Let's not even get into when I will actually be editing any photos, I can't even manage to import a damn picture without my whole computer crashing. Red lights flashing, alarms sounding. My computer is shouting at me, "MORON! MORON! MORON! STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER! INSUFFICIENT KNOWLEDGE! YOU CAN'T DO IT LIKE THAT! DUDE, MY GRANDMOTHER IS MORE TECHNO-SAVVY THAN YOU! GO BUY A BROTHER WORD PROCESSOR AND LEAVE ME ALONE!" He's really pissy tonight.


You're a dirty bitch, Adobe. I wish you would die!





Back to my tutorials, I guess.

Alright, I give in. I'm totally getting baked tonight.

Am I a total donkey? OK, that was rhetorical. Thanks anyway, though. But I am a donkey. I actually turned down the opportunity to get laid tonight. And I am in dire need of it. I need a pipe cleaning like... well, some really clogged up pipes, that's for sure. This perfectly lovely lady called me and asked if I would like to join her and her friends for a night out.

Knowing this group as I do, I am absolutely certain I would have ended up on the sexy end of an Adam sandwich. But it would have entailed doing many things that I am just not in the mood for tonight. Or any night soon, actually.

First, I would almost definitely have to have had a few drinks. Alright. I would had to have drank copiously. And we all know that I have been a very good boy recently and have not had a drink in...how long? That's right, almost two months. You guys are good. Way to pay attention. I'd give you a gold star, but I'm fresh out.

Second, I would have to have smoked. A lot. It just goes so well with drinking. Smoking is like Stan Laurel to drinking's Oliver Hardy. Or Butch to it's Sundance. Or Turner to it's Hooch. Or Harley Davidson to it's Marlboro Man*. They go together is all I'm saying. Like rama-lama-lama and ka-dinkity-ding-da-dong. Not familiar with that last reference? I'm sure you are. Shoo-bop-shoo-wadda-wadda-yippity-boom-de-boom.


Third, I would probably have to smoke pot. OK, maybe not have to. It's sort of a mood enhancer though. And this guy is not up for that right now. Me smoking pot. Not right now. Not again.






Sorry. I was totally looking for a reason to use that pic. I have a couple more I'm just dying to try out, but I have to find the right context for them.








Look, we all know there was never going to be the right context for that one. So let's just pretend like it never happened, and move on. Agreed? OK. Back to my "story".

To do all these things would have set me back in my "growth" as an "adult". Not to mention, I haven't really been in the greatest of moods recently. Not really a ball of laughs. And I can't stand going out at less than 100%. I need to be on my game. My personality is only enjoyable when I am actually saying funny and interesting things. Otherwise, I'm just some guy who is talking too loudly and saying "Do you know what I mean?" all night. Not a fun guy to be around.

So I made the difficult decision to pass up almost guaranteed action, and for what? Well, even though I am not smoking pot, it doesn't mean I'm not getting baked. Oh, this guy is soooo baking it up tonight.



Yeah, I'm pretty much awesome. Spending a Saturday night making brownies and eating said brownies with large amounts of ice cream (Edy's Vanilla Bean. Jealous? Of course you are.)

So what if I'm not getting laid tonight? Is that the only thing that is important anymore? It's not like I can't survive without sex. I've gone through dry spells before. I can be, and on occasion have been, a sexual camel. And no regular camel. No. A frickin' dromedary. I can go for months... years if I have to. (OK. Once, for 16 years, I went without sex. And admittedly, for 13 of those years, I really wasn't even sure about what it was that I was missing.) So don't worry about me. I'll be fine.













Man, I need to get laid. I think I made a huge mistake. But its times like these when I contemplate the true meaning of existence, and I ask myself:








*Harley Davidson and The Marlboro Man is a classic of American cinema. Whether you want to believe me or not.


_____________________________________________________

Sunday morning update:

I am proud to say that, despite my chocolate hangover, I only ate a half a pan of brownies last night! Aren't you proud of me? I must now go throw up.

Breaking up is hard to do.

My dearest Winter,

Well hello there. I know we haven't seen much of each other in the last few weeks. I've been enjoying the sun again. Playing basketball, practicing chipping in the backyard, even doing a little yard work. But then, out of nowhere, this morning you come barging back into my life. I don't really appreciate it. You have to accept it, Spring and I are in the throes of a torrid love affair. And you are just not welcome here anymore. I mean, what are you even doing still hanging around? Easter was last week, for crying out loud! Can't you take a hint. We even had it moved up to try and convince you further.

I know you mean well. But... I don't know. The timing just isn't right. And we aren't a very good match. You're cold and unwelcoming. While I'm more of a sunny disposition type of guy. Suffice it to say, it's not you... it's me.

So, if you wouldn't mind, please stop trying to contact me. Stop "accidentally" meeting up with me when I'm trying to clear brush out back. There's nothing wrong with you. I've just... I've moved on as a person. You're too cold for me. You're unfeeling. Discontented. Yes, that's it. You are my winter of discontent.

I want you to be happy again, like when we were younger. I want both of us to be happy. But that can never happen if you don't leave me. If you don't take some time away and try to get back in touch with yourself. In touch with that season I first fell in love with so long ago.

Go. You need to spread your wings. Maybe take a trip to Australia. Or South America. Somewhere in the southern hemisphere, is what I'm driving at. And maybe (and this is a BIG maybe), if you can prove to me that you've changed, maybe then we can try to work things out. But I just need time. Eight months or so, preferably.

But if you try and contact me again before Thanksgiving, then you can just forget about reconciliation. Because we are through.

And I will do everything in my power to eradicate you from my life. Excessive use of hydrocarbons- check. A heavily advertised campaign to bring back CFCs- check. Massive amounts of littering- check. I will personally go to the Arctic and melt the polar ice caps with a blow torch if necessary.

So please, just leave me alone for the time being. Leave me, and everyone associated with me to our own devices. We both know it's for the best. I will always love you. But I need some space away from you right now. Please take care of yourself. And know that in the dog days of August, when I'm on my fourth shirt at 10 in the morning because I have already sweat through the previous three, I will be thinking of you.

With all my love and affection,

Your dearest Adam





P.S. My lilac bush would also appreciate your leaving.

Here I come to save the day!

Ewww. EWWWWWWW! So, to top off my incredible week of fun in the sun (read: woebegone depression), I made a tremendous discovery: I have mice. Well, A mouse, to be exact. And not the cute fuzzy kind you get at the pet store. No, no. The hulking, plague-ridden kind that like to eat ham sandwiches in one bite. At least that's what his droppings made me believe.

So I did the prudent thing. What any sane, rational person would do. I called in the heavy artillery. Bloodless traps? No thanks. Those sticky things that leaves him unharmed and with the ability to bite me while I attempt to transport his bubonic ass to a lovely dumpster that is more amenable to his discriminating sensibilities? Forget that shit. Hello D-Con!

Yes, I'm a murderer. You all should have seen it coming. I have no room for a mouse in my house. I'm already the proud owner of a dog I never wanted, who is quickly and furiously eating me out of house and home. One pest is all I can stand to board for the time being, thank you.

So I laid my trap. He was quite fond of my utensil drawer, which seems odd, because there is no food in there. Unless.... I need a new dishwasher. Dammit!. Anyway, I took this rather small box of green pellets that assured me of a quick and painless death. Frankly, I would have settled for drawn out and horrifically painful, but you takes whats you can gets when you gets it. So the trap was laid.

First night, nothing. No mouse. Not one little morsel of delicious poison was disturbed. This guy is good. I'm going to have to be ultra tricky to wrangle this little bastard.

So night two comes. I decide to up the ante, and next to the Box-O-Death® I place a small dollop of peanut butter. I eschewed the cheese, because I assume he is aware of our simple cartoon antics, and is already prepared for that. Well, guess what? Curveball, mother fucker! I went to bed squeamish and uneasy, yet content in my trickery.

I awoke the next morning, leaped out of bed and ran down the stairs with all the vigor of a 7 year old on Christmas morning. I dashed into the kitchen to see whether my little ruse had worked. I slowly opened the drawer, half expecting him to be sitting there, licking his chops and looking for more peanut butter like Floyd does. But much to my relief, he wasn't. However, there was no peanut butter blob. It was gone! And in my haste to look for the peanut butter, I almost didn't notice that the poison had been dug into. He even had time to take a shit in the box.


YES! Check-mother fucking-mate, bitch!


But now, I had a problem. Where was he? Sure, he ate the stuff. But I was expecting that shit to be instantaneous. Eat one bite, BOOM! Dead mouse. It worked like that on Bartlett's (my neighbor) cat anyway (I'm kidding! Just kidding. No angry emails, please.). But I looked around the drawer; no mouse to be found.

So now I'm worried. Because there are only two options for what happened.

One: He ate the poison, crawled back into the wall, and died a dignified death, worthy of Shakespeare. So tell him, with th' occurrents, more and less, Which have solicited- the rest is silence.









Or Two: This mouse is now plotting his revenge as I have not killed him, so much as I have made him incredibly mad and also, impervious to any poisons we as humans can conjure up. Think Teenage Mutant Ninja Vermin. I like this idea somewhat, as long as he treats me as wise old Splinter (which would be appropos, as Splinter was a rat), and not the evil Shredder. I would very much like for him not to kill me in my sleep, basically is all I'm saying. So, mouse, if that is your real name, this is my plaintive plea to you:

If you are in fact dead, may your tiny, disease infested soul rest in peace.

If, in fact, you are now a super mouse, hell bent on world domination, I suggest you start over at Bartlett's house. He has a snake. He feeds your brethren to it. I've seen it with my own eyes. Up the stairs, to the left, first door. Go get him! The key is under the mat, but with your (now) super strength, it shouldn't be much of a problem for you.







____________________________________________________

Edited on March 28th at 12:00 EDT.

One of my lovely and most loyal readers, Whimsicalsun, brought up the point in the comments section that perhaps I should take more humane measures, and get a cat. How having a cat catch the mouse and then rip it to shreds and leave it at my bedroom door is more humane, I'm not quite sure.

However, I must say, I do have a cat. Her name is Otis. She is 10 years old. She is currently not living with me, as I have inherited the spawn of Satan, otherwise known as Floyd. She is a great mouse catcher. And I would love to employ her natural abilities, but circumstances don't allow for that at this point in time. Floyd would kill her, and that's all there is to say. He even told me he would.






This is my darling Otis, who is also my usual designated mousecatcher. Please ignore the flowered bedspread. It is not mine.

So, unless any of you are interested in a slightly hyperactive, moderately stupid 4 year old Jack Russell Terrier named Floyd, Otis will remain in isolation. If you are interested in him, please contact me directly. My email is available through my profile page. Only serious inquiries, please. Act now and get a half box of uneaten Girl Scout Cookies thrown in at no extra charge!

Utterances

Things I said today that could be taken out of context.

"Just pee on it already!"

"That baby was delicious!"

"Get your face out of my balls, please."

"A little faster. Almost! Ahhhh. And we're done. Nice work Ted."

"I tasted your fish taco before, and it was disgusting."

"I wish I was a Nazi."

__________________________________________________

And on a completely unrelated topic, but undeserving of an entire post:

Do you think it's weird that everyday Floyd and I walk past this church, The Immaculate Heart of Mary, and everyday he takes a crap right in front of it? And coincidentally, it's the church that wouldn't baptize me when I was a baby because my parents weren't married. I never told Floyd this story, either. He just drops a log right there, every day. Could he be an Atheist too, and just is more... vociferous isn't the right word... he's just more aggressive in his beliefs?

I don't know. Maybe he's Protestant?

...

A feeble attempt at self-analyzation that ultimately serves only to reconfirm the overarching concept that has plagued my existence.

I'm finding it hard to be jovial today.
Yeah, it's another one of those days.
I'm just so overtaken by...
by...
sadness.
That's not the right word.
I don't know the right word.
I've tried to describe this before.
Like here.
Or here even, albeit in an entirely different manner.
But even these don't touch the depths to which my mind has sunk this morning.

I was awake at 3 AM last night.
I had been dreaming of her.
Her name... is not important.
She is the one who has caused me so much distress the last...
Christ,
Year and a half.

I hate her.
I love her.
I'm constantly overwhelmed by the contradictory feelings I have for her.
How can I be so...

She just has my number, you know?

I wish I could just forget her.
God help me, I've tried.

But my usual outlet for forgetting her is,
well,
Currently unavailable to me.
I can't won't drink.
I can't won't smoke.
And I definitely can't won't fall backwards,
Into the pit that has held me for so many years,
My addiction.

It's this overwhelming grief of being alone
that has clawed at me recently.
I should be somewhere by now.
I should be well on my way down a path that is unfamiliar and strange,
but at the same time calming and welcoming.

I should have a wife,
Kids,
Two cars, a big house,
And a successful career by now.

But I traded all that in.
For meaningless good times.
For a one night stand that lasted a year.
And during that year,
I fell in love.
I found what I was looking for.
I was happy and content for the first time in my life.
A very uncommon state for me.

I am accustomed to being miserable,
Paranoid,
Lost.
I'm broken,
And no amount of crazy glue can fix me.

Well, if I wasn't miserable,
I am now.
But it's not the same.
It's like I'm living someone else's life.
I have these fears, but they're not mine.
I have wants and desires, but they are unfamiliar.
They are not of my choosing.
I am an empty shell of a man,
Drifting aimlessly through someone else's consciousness.



And as I continue my search for...
For the person I really am,
Was,
And may well be again,
She is still there.
Three doors up the road.
At night it's so quiet,
I can hear her laughing from my window.
And I get curious.
I wonder whether I am right in my decision.

I'm weak.
I say I'm done.
Yet I continue to go back.
Hoping that what we had
Can somehow morph into what we both need again.

You can't force love.
I've learned that.
And it's unfair to try.
Unfair to you and to them.

So I drift.
I drift from one meaningless relationship to the next,
And it will go on that way forever.















I'm just not meant for good things.

Melancholy

We interupt your regularly scheduled reading...

Bereft,
Of Inspiration.
Creativity is lacking.
A once exuberant mind,
Now sits... idling.
Insistence of consistency,
While productive,
Begets exponentially poorer results.

____________________________________

Ask again later.

Better know a Blogger

A variation on my not so well received Top Ten lists from a few weeks ago, here are ten things you couldn't possibly have known about me.

1. If I could, I'd eat Cocoa Pebbles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. For a midnight snack: grapefruit.
2. I have twin sister. On several occasions, I have been asked whether or not we are IDENTICAL!
3. I am a pretty damn good golfer. I was Club Champion at the age of 18. Is that record? I like to think so. But probably not.
4. At age 21, I spent weeks considering whether or not I should become a priest. Decided, finally, to do it. However, I reconsidered upon remembering that I am an Atheist, and that the seminary may frown upon that.
5. I tell everyone that I scored a 1200 on my SATs. I really got an 1160. 1200 just sounds so much smarter. (For edification, 690 verbal, 470 math. I have basic computation skills, but those god damn trigonometric functions just killed me.)
6. I have attempted to kill myself no less than 3 times. (From heights: twice, pills, and pills + alcohol. Ok, no less than 4 times.)
7. As of right now, I don't think I ever want to have children. I have way too many a lot of nieces and nephews, and they are nightmares wonderful. But being directly responsible for people's lives that aren't mine? Not really a dream for me right now. (Also, I would never wish to pass on any of my... less desirable genetic predispositions.)
8. I once thaought I had stigmata. Turns out I just had really dry skin.
9. I am, in fact, a drug addict. I have been clean for almost 2 months now. And other than the one slip up in early February, I have been clean for almost two years. But I am an addict. Not a former addict. You are never a former addict. It's a physical and mental impossiblity. You are only a former addict when you are dead.
10. Ther is one thing about me that is more deplorable than any thing else I have told you. It is so despicable, I am ashamed to even mention it to this very day, for fear of admonition from and degradation by, my peers. It was the year 2000. I was 19. I was young and naive and not yet versed in the ways of the world. I couldn't see through the lies and the bullshit being force fed to me. I chalk it up to my not having a stable father figure as a child, therefore causing untold damage to my sense of right and wrong. What is this thing I speak of? Oh, I can't even utter it. OK, here it is. I voted for George Bush. I know. I know.

Trust me, I'm more disappointed in myself than you are shocked. If I had to do it over again, I would have voted for Nader. I just hate Al Gore so much.

Adam's irrational "celebrity" crush of the week

New feature being debuted here. It's my irrational "celebrity" crush of the week. Each week I will spotlight a celebrity, or a non-celebrity, or the girl who works at the gas station downtown. It's really dependent upon my current mood how I'll decide to go.

This week's irrational crush:

CNN's Erica Hill.




The beguiling redhead is currently being absolutely wasted on Anderson Cooper 360 acting as the news gal, and is at present, haunting my dreams. This temptress is just so absolutely gorgeous, I have no other choice but to sit through Cooper's annoying banter and awkward flirting just to get my daily dose of the beauty that is she.




Mmmmmm.

The Week That Was

So, it's officially been a week.
One week.
Una Semana.
The shakes have worn off.
But I am still undergoing withdrawals occasionally.
However, I have gone one whole week without a cigarette.
There were a few hairy moments.
But, all in all,
I made it.


Yeah, I'd say I'm completely fucking miserable.

It is not a good idea,
when one is trying to affect drastic change in one's life,
To try to change more than one thing at any one time.
I gave up smoking.
That should have been enough.
But no-ooo!
I had to go and be a hero.
I had to make the most harrowing time of my pathetic existence
That much more difficult.
I decided to become healthier.
As if quitting smoking wasn't enough.

I'm afraid I may have done too much damage to my body already.
The effects may be irreparable.
I'm trying to eat healthier.
I'm working out more.
Taking Floyd on longer walks.
And I've concluded this:

I'm a masochist.

I enjoy punishing myself.
I guess that's a sadist.
I'm not really sure.
I'm a sado-masochist.
Bases covered.

Here is a snapshot of the last week of my life:

As I said, I started working out more.
And it's official:
My body hates me.
I've never been so sore.
My ear lobes hurt, that's the extent of my soreness.

And as I said, I'm eating better.
Well, with the exception of Easter.
I ate like I was never going to see food again on Easter.
But I decided that there is no point in working out so hard,
If I'm going to go home and make myself a bacon cheeseburger.














Oh sorry. Just dreaming of a bacon cheeseburger.

MMM. This salad is delicious!

To skinless chicken breast I say:
What's the fucking point of your existence?
Who enjoys you?
Honestly?

The only thing that has made me happy is the stir fry.
Oh, stir fry.
Is it ok if I overload you with soy sauce and hoisin?
That's perfectly healthy, right?

I've limited myself to only a few Girl Scout Cookies each night.
Unfortunately, the weekend before my (insane) epiphany,
I got my delivery of like 6 boxes of them.
Samoas. Tagalongs.
And of course, my freezer runneth over with Thin Mints.
I also have a box of Trefoils,
But I think that was a slip of the pen on the order form.

And I've picked up a new hobby.
I've begun to yell at strangers on the street.
It's awesome.
Totally better than therapy.
I suggest you give it a try.
Pick a random stranger,
And just berate them for the dumbest reason possible.
They were looking at you funny,
Or say that their dog was about to piss on your car.
Or just lose your shit on them for no readily apparent reason,
Letting loose a profanity laced tirade that would make Lenny Bruce blush.

The last one was my favorite.


I've been spending time with my family.
And that's.... rewarding?

I never realized how much I hate them until I went sober.
I have been off of drugs for almost 23 months now,
Except for that one slip up at the Super Bowl party.
And I have been alcohol free since...
Well, the Super Bowl party. Crazy night.
And for the last week,
I've been completely nicotine free.
And I've realized something:
My family is full of ungrateful self serving assholes.
But I don't want to say anything hurtful about them.
So I'll move on.

I totally love and respect them,
But they're all fucking insane.

Is this as uninteresting as I think it is?

I'm sorry.

I just..
I could really use a smoke right now.
I would blow a hobo for a Parliament.

I would light my hair on fire.

I would eat donkey feces.




SOMEBODY FUCKING HELP ME! PLEASE!

Pack rat? Me? Noooo!

Here is an incomplete list of some of the things I found while cleaning my basement.

Hockey stick- Whaaaa? Anyone who knows me knows I am utterly uncoordinated. So hockey was never really my sport of choice. But how did I come into possession of a stick? Good question. I was a drug abuser years ago, and also a big fan of flea markets. A dangerous combination.

Copy of Ferris Bueller's Day Off... on Beta- Beta? WTF? What is this, 1985?

Lava lamp and black light bulb- Far out. I wish I could find my poster with all the mushrooms and pot leaves. Trippy shit, man.

Copy of Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Works- Awww, sweet!

Gold Bond Medicated Foot Cream- And you thought I didn't know how to party anymore. Shows what you know.

Acoustic Guitar- One whole year of lessons, and I can play the first three bars of The Troggs Wild Thing. Money (and obviously time) well spent.

Videotapes of my acting days- You mean I have a copy of "The Great Cowtown Bank Robbery" of my very own? Damn, I was a great narrator. And seriously, I found my copy of me as Bottom in "A Midsummer Night's Dream". I would have killed to play Puck. Man, I would have been so awesome. Not that I'm bitter about it (anymore).

Flannel bathrobe- I was an old man even at 20.

Three seperate vacuum cleaners, all broken- Obviously I have the inability to throw anything out, ever. Who knows when I may need one of the attachments from one of those things?

My copy of Nation of Nations- This was my AP History book from my senior year in high school. I "lost" it and had to pay $68 in order to get my diploma. You think I might be able to return it and get my 68 bucks back?

Two Norman Rockwell prints, and a painting of a dead tree- Obviously I have impeccable taste in Art. I fear these may also be a byproduct of stoned flea market trips. However, all three pieces are now currently hanging in my bedroom.

A set of 20 pound dumbells and a set of 50 pound dumbells- OK, I get the 20's. But the 50's? What am I? Schwarzenegger? I had trouble even moving them into a corner I'm so feeble.

Countless T-Shirts I thought I had lost forever or had been pilfered by friends and family- Oh, dude, my "Where's the Beef" T-shirt with the arrow pointing toward my crotch. Can you say "Wearing to my next job interview," children? I knew you could.

A complete collection of Frank Sinatra's films I had bought in High School during a pot induced mania- It's still a sweet buy, even if it was a little on the impetuous side. I mean, $140? And it's on VHS! I don't even own a VCR anymore.

A VCR!- HUZZAH! Unfortunately, after hours of looking, no power cord. FUCK!



All in all, a pretty decent haul. And this was only a selection of the shit I found. I'm probably most excited about the foot cream. I got a corn that's just aching for that stuff. Does that make me sound old? I don't care.

Happy Easter

As much as I love chocolate bunnies, marshmallow chickens covered in sugar (whipped sugar rolled in sugar? Only in America.), and Cadbury Creme Eggs (Oh, how I love Cadbury Creme Eggs!), there is one Easter tradition I've had since I became an adult that I cherish more than any other: Watching "Jesus of Nazareth" on The History Channel.

An incredible piece of filmmaking, Franco Zefferelli's magnum opus is 6 hours of ecumenical good times. Well, except for the end. That's a bit of a downer.

Now, do not let this persuade you into thinking that I am a religious man. For nothing could be further from the truth. The last time I was in church, I was carrying my Grandmother's casket down the aisle, and sitting through an (interminable) hour long Mass. On a Tuesday!!

I was "raised" Catholic, but was never confirmed, never went to one CCD class. In fact, there is a story my Grampa would tell about how, upon my baptism, when the water was flecked onto my forehead, it sizzled with all the vigor of a hot frying pan being doused with a dollop of butter. SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

What I'm saying is, as far as designation goes, I would be classfied as... an Atheist. Now, I won't go into that here, because I have far too much respect for those that do believe in Christian theology to debase their religion on this day of all days. It must be a great relief to have such a strong belief in something that you have no logical reason to believe. I wish I could have that. But circumstances in my life have all lead me to my current state of non-belief (not disbelief, as many would have you think about Atheists).

But I've strayed off topic a little.

So, I make my usual cup of tea this morning (I abhor coffee), a nice buttery croissant from the bakery downtown, and my Sunday paper. I turn on my TV, and put it on The History Channel. Only, much to my chagrin, Jesus of Nazareth is not on. What the... But it's EASTER! Look, I dealt with it not being on last Christmas. I wasn't happy, but I dealt. I rather thought it an anomaly that would surely be righted before the HOLIEST OF ALL HOLY DAYS IN ALL OF CHRISTENDOM!

But no! Apparently, going "Beyond the Da Vinci Code" is more important than telling the GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD! Pardon my shouting, but I'm a little perturbed.

Why, you may ask, is an Atheist so distraught over the inability to watch a religious movie on a religious holiday? Good question. Very observant. Gold star for you. Well, the answer is: Tradition (He said somewhat ironically. Fiddler on the Roof? Anyone?). It's just what I do on Easter. It's sort of my thing. My nieces come over and I implore them to watch with me. They never do for more than 20 minutes, but that's still fine. I make them be quiet and appreciate Robert Powell's (literally) unblinking performance as the carpenter from Nazareth who shepherded the birth of a new religion. A religion based on kindness and faith. Love and duty. On forgiveness and, yes, tradition. It's an ideology seemingly long forgotten by many of today's Christians.

I do not believe in the Resurrection of Christ, or in the Divinity of Jesus. I do not beleive that he was the Son of God or of Man. But if you read the Bible, as I have and I encourage all who are of the same mindset as me to do, what is espoused as the duties of a good Christian are not really off the mark to what makes a good person in general. Frankly, if you follow the wisdom of Jesus, you will see that what he asks of mankind is what we should be asking of ourselves and of others.

Treat others with kindness. Love your neighbor. Treat the poor with respect and not disdain. Never persecute anyone for their beliefs. These are the tenets that we as a people should follow. Whether we believe the rest of The Word is up to each of us individually, and what we deem to be right deep within our souls. What Jesus tought are the fundamentals of how to live a good life, regardless of religious affiliation, or non-affiliation as the case may be.

So, to not see this beautiful film on the day that would seemingly call for it the most is downright tragic. And honestly, it makes me sad. The story is what touches me the most, and I am always up for a little soul inspiring.

And yes, I could buy the DVD, and then I could watch the movie whenever I wanted. But then it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be the ritual that I have come to enjoy.

And in the end, isn't that what Easter is all about: Tradition?

Seriously? Come on. You have to be shitting me.

A Virginia woman recently sold a Corn Flake shaped like the state of Illinois at auction for $1,350. Click on that link, and then tell me: does that corn flake look any different than any other corn flake you or I have been shoveling down our gullets for as long as we can remember? I contend that it does not.

And to the demented fucktard person who purchased that Corn Flake: Have I got a deal for you! I recently came into possession of a Saltine cracker that bears a striking resemblance to the state of Wyoming. And I am willing to let it go for the laughable price of only $600! I mean, I'm practically giving it away!












This offer is only good for the next seventy two hours, at which time I will open up the bidding to the general public. The ball is now in your court, you incredible fucking moron sir.

Let me tell you little story bout the joker and the thief in the night.

OK, so I am once again pilfering another idea from someone else who is far more creative than me. But in this instance, it was suggested by the creative one themself. Don't believe me? Then visit this tremendous blog, Sarcomical, right now. Do it. I dare you.

I can't believe you looked. You bastard. What do I have to do to gain your trust?





OK. So, for the rules. It's really very easy.
1. After reading my answers, copy and paste the list into your comment.

2. Change my one-word responses with yours (yes, only ONE WORD. Try to contain yourself.)

3.Submit your comment.

See? Easy peasy.

And awaaaaaayyy we gooo!

You're Feeling: Anxious
To Your Left: Dictionary
On Your Mind: Floyd
Last Meal Included: Chicken?
You Sometimes Find it Hard To: Specify
The Weather: Windy
Something You Have a Collection of: Hummels
A Smell that Cheers You Up: Cookies
A Smell that Can Ruin Your Mood: Ringtones
How Long Since You Last Shaved: Weeks
The Current State of Your Hair: Unkempt
The Largest Item On Your Desk/Workspace Right Now (besides computer): Mug
Your Skill with Chopsticks: Limited
Which Section You Head to First In the Bookstore: Classics
...and After That?: Humor
Something You're Craving: Cigarette
Your General Thoughts On the Presidential Race: Obamamania!
How Many Times You've Been Hospitalized this Year: None
A Favorite Place to Go for Quiet Time: Bed
You've Always Secretly Thought You'd Be a Good: Barista
Something that Freaks You Out a Little: Toupees
Something You've Eaten Too Much of Lately: Cookies
You Have Never: Flown
You Never Want To: Kill

The Cool Table

So, while executing my daily blog trawl yesterday, I read a great post on one of my favorite blogs. I’ve yet to put her in my blogroll because, well, I’ve wanted to keep her all for myself. But I suppose that is no longer possible. So visit her site and read that post here. The post was a plea to her young son, who has been going through some troubles at his school, with bullying and having difficulty finding friends. It’s really beautiful. She relays the story of her hardships growing up as a gawky kid, and how she also had trouble making new friends. She just wanted to tell him how great he is and that, eventually, things will come together and he will find that he has more friends than he ever could have imagined.

It was very touching. She’s a very good writer, smart, clever, UPROARIOUSLY funny, and bawdy, and crass, all things I find exceedingly fantastic. However this post is not meant to simply extol the virtues of Loralee Choate. OK. One more time. Visit her here.

Her post got me thinking about my experiences as a youngster, being socially awkward, and not having as happy a childhood as I would have wished. But as much as I like to see it that way, looking back, I am wholly mistaken. Certainly, as many of you have guessed I am and always have been, a dork. And I have always embraced my dorkiness. I wear it as a badge of honor. Even when I was in school, and being a dork was frowned upon, I was never ashamed of it. And eventually, by the fact that I was comfortable with who I was, I was accepted and appreciated by a lot of people I would never consider my friends.

In grade school I was smart. That alone is enough to inflict enough trauma on a kid to last a lifetime. But, I was also good at sports, funny, and quick witted. I guess you could say I was a class clown. The teachers certainly would have another expression. Pain in the ass comes to mind. But I was still smart. And being the smart kid carries with it a stigma that is not easy to shake. You have the reputation of being a nerd and a bookworm and a brown-noser simply by answering a few questions in class. And the playground is where kids would take it out on you. They were ruthless. They would find something about you that was a little off normal, and relentlessly beat you with it. I, for instance, had big ears. So the moniker of “Dumbo” was one I am very used to.

I had to fight very hard to get people to see me for who I really am. Not just the kid with the inordinately large ears. I found the best way to defeat childhood cruelty was self deprecation. Beat them to the punch, and then they have nothing to ridicule. I would joke that I couldn’t run as fast as the other kids because of the drag my enormous ears created. By the time I was in Junior High, Dumbo was dead. And Floppy was born. I coined it myself. My theme song was “Do Your Ears Hang Low?” You would often find me singing it as I merrily made my way through the halls.

And soon enough, no one was making fun of me. I had ostensibly become the de facto King Of All Dorks! I was accepted into groups of kids who were, admittedly, way cooler than me. Now, I hated cliques. And I hated how kids can be pigeon-holed into one clique, and never, ever get the chance to intermingle. The jocks, the dorks, the preppies, the nerds, the computer geeks, the goths, the drama wonks. I hated them all. What they stood for. Not them. So I made it my personal goal to integrate all of these groups into one homogenous clique, where everyone was welcomed into it, and no one was made the subject of ridicule just because they were a little different.

By the time I was a sophomore, I was, for all intents and purposes, the most popular kid in school. I despised it. But it was fact. I had the love and admiration of every group. Because I would talk to them. It’s as simple as that. I hung out with the drama and band kids in the morning before school. They were odd, but the were also well meaning and easy to get along with. At lunch, I usually ate with the less... popular kids. I would shun the cool table, and go and eat with the kids who would, for as long as I can remember, stare longingly at the cool table. Wishing that just once, they would be invited to sit there. I didn’t care. I enjoyed them. They were funny and off beat, and surprisingly dark in their humor. And me being the sardonic wunderkind that I am, I loved it.

It all boiled down to acceptance. I accepted these kids based on nothing. They were there, and they deserved to be treated like humans. Not like lesser people who only needed your attention when you needed to copy their homework (Arthur Murphy, I’m looking at you.)

By the time we were seniors, there were no cliques. We were just people. The cheerleaders hung out with the computer geeks. (And some of them even lost our virginity to them. Huzzah!) The jocks ate joyfully next to the goths. The drama and band kids were actively corrupting all of the preppies. (Let me tell you, I discovered how great pot was from the band kids. They are some wild ones.)

I guess reading Loralee’s story made me think about those days. And although I may have become one of the “cool kids”, I managed to do it while never selling my soul. I always kept in touch with my dorkish… leanings.

Because no mater how cool I got, I was always that nine year old kid in his ALF underoos, with the big ears and freckle covered face, who never forgot what it was like to be made fun of. And I have made it my mission in life to be accepting of everyone I meet. No matter what they may outwardly appear to be, inside, we are all just scared little nine year olds, begging to sit at the cool table. As far as I’m concerned, whatever table you sit at, if you have friends who love you and treat you with respect, you’ll always be at the cool table.

The dream is happening!

Oh my. Floyd is hysterical. He has auditioned for, and received, the role of Tzeitel in the Peterborough Player's production of Fiddler on the Roof. He has spent all week getting into character. Speaking in Yiddish, only answering to the character's name. And rather disappointing is the fact that we've been eating kishkes for supper every night.

This is what I've had to deal with:



You try telling that face that you don't know how to make challah. Or that you've never even heard of gefilte fish. And don't get me started with Saturday! What kind of people go to church on a Saturday?

What's that Floyd? OH SHUT UP!

Fine. Sorry, what kind of people go to Temple on a Saturday?



OY VEY!

Close encounters of the dimwitted kind

I love meeting new people. By love, I mean I enjoy fucking with them. After the pleasantries and introductions, usually the first question is "What do you do for a living?" This is a vexing question for me, as I am in between positions at the moment. So I have adapted a new way to entertain myself: inveterate lying. It's fun. Here is one recent interaction, between me and a prospective new "friend". Notice how I set up the fact that I have instantaneous disdain for this person by consistently repeating the question "Me?" in an obviously mocking tone. OK, away we go. I should mention for posterity's sake, this is a woman I am speaking with.


Unwitting Pawn: So... what do you do?
Me: Me? I think I'm a writer.
UP: Oh. Who do you write for?
Me: Me? No one.
UP: So you're a freelancer. Cool.
Me: Me? No. No freelancing.
UP: I don't understand. How do you make a living?
Me: Me? I'm independently wealthy.
UP: {starting up} Really?
Me: No.
UP: {scoff} So, what do you do?
Me: I think... I'm a writer.
UP: But... how do you make money? Mo-ney? {does that thing where she rubs her thumb, forefinger, and middle finger together so as to indicate she is talking about money.}
Me: I rob banks.
UP: Come on! Where do you get your money to live on?
Me: Ok. You want to know th truth? {looks around to be sure no one is eavesdropping} I am a writer. I write for the government. They pay me to write propaganda pamphlets. You know, the ones they distribute in Afghanistan and Iraq? Sometimes, I kinda feel like a Nazi, but then I think, "Hey, even Nazis had to eat*."
UP: Well, that's obviously a lie.
Me: What part?
UP: The whole thing.
Me: Nope. You're wrong.
UP: Well, which part is true?
Me: {pause} Ok. You got me.
UP: So, how do you make money?
Me: Why is this so important to you? I'm obviously not going to tell you.
UP: Why not?
Me: Because I don't like you.
UP: But we just met 10 minutes ago.
Me: And they've been the most excruciating 10 minutes of my life.
UP: You're a dick {giggles}. How can you be so sure you don't like me?
Me: Me? I'm a good judge of character. And I'm excellent at snap judgements. In fact, I minored in it in college.
UP: Look, I'm asking you one more time, and then, I'm walking away. What do you do for a living?
Me: Me? I'm a coke dealer.
UP: {exasperated sigh; walks away shaking her head**}

Annnnndddd.......scene.

That's ok. I didn't want need any new friends anyway.










*In no way am I condoning anything the Nazis ever did or said. I was merely pointing out that all humans must provide for themselves, even the deplorable ones.

**To be honest, that night, we did end up sleeping together. But I haven't seen her since, and I gave her a fake phone number. And she thinks my name is Archibald. So I'm in the clear, I think.

Zen and the Art of Quitting Smoking

Hour 1 (8 AM)
OK. Quitting smoking is easy.
At least those commercials make it look easy.
I just put that magnet in my ear,
and it's over?
Done?
Fantastic!

Alright.
Anyone who's tried knows it's not easy at all.
Magnet or no.
But I can handle this.
I bought 10 packs of Bubblicious:
Watermelon, blueberry, and mixed.
That should suffice.
Just in case though,
I have 5 boxes of Ludens cherry cough drops.
And a bag of Lemon Drops.
I may get 5 cavities,
But I'm quitting. It's better than lung cancer.
To hell with this.
Taking a positive attitude.
All I need is a plan,
And to stick to it.




Fuck.
I have no plan.



I'm taking a nap.

Hour 3 (10 AM)
God I love naps.
I could really use a smoke.
Oh that sweet sweet tobacco.
How can something so vile smelling be so soothing?
Or taste sooooo good?


I'm taking a shower.
That'll kill some time.

Hour 5 (12 PM)
10 minute shower turns into 2 hour bath.
Grabbed my copy of Trainspotting and I just got lost...
For 2 hours.
Ahhhh. I smell pretty.
I didn't think about smoking, either.
Not once.
Well, maybe once.
Ok, 47 seperate times.
But that's it.

However, the important thing is,
I haven't acted on those urges. Yet.

I'm going to take Floyd for a walk.

Hour 9 (4 PM)
Unbelievably, heightened anxiety has set in.
I snapped at Floyd for taking too long to pee.
It was like 40 seconds.
Just mark the hydrant and move the fuck on!
Jesus.
It's only 4 o'clock.
But I'm famished.
I need to eat.

I'm considering cooking a turkey.
But that would take like 4 hours.
And I don't have that kind of time.
Or patience.
Maybe tomorrow.
Pizza it is!
Ooh. Barbecue chicken and broccoli.
Now we're fucking talking.
"Yeah, BBQ chicken and broccoli pizza, por favor.
Oh, well, fuck yeah, I'll take a large.
And an order of chicken wings.
Sure, uh, a Dr. Pepper. The good docta.
Oh lord! Make it a 2 liter.
Lubrication is key. Ladies.
20 minutes?!?
{sigh} Okay."

Hour 9 1/2 (4:30 PM)
Where's that fucking delivery guy?
20 minutes my ass!
It's been...
almost 25 minutes already!
This is ridiculous.
5 more minutes, and I'm calling the place back.
What I will say,
I have no idea.
I'm not as good at confrontation as you might think.

Hour 9 3/4 (4:45 PM)
Fuckin A!
Where's my GD pie?
I fucking swear...
I'm about to go apeshit!
Mother fucking lazy ass stoner pizza guy,
Getting high on my ti...
All I want is my goddamn pizza!
Am I asking too much?
That my pie be delivered in a reasonable amount of time?

FINALLY!
There he is.

FUCK! Goddamn Bartlett.
Stopping in front of my house.
STOP IN FRONT OF YOUR OWN DAMN HOUSE!
Sonofabitch.

Hour 10 (5 PM)
You've gotta be fucking kidding me?
Okay. I'm no longer hungry.
I've been feasting on rage for thirty minutes. Or less.
And quite frankly, I'm about full.

WOULD YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP FLOYD!
I'm sorry buddy.
I'm sorry.
Wait.
Oh Floyd!
You beautiful bastard!
Awwwww Yeeeeeeeeeeah!
Pizza guy mofo!

This cracka ain't gettin' no tip, fo sho.

Hour 10 1/6 (5:10 PM)
Totally worth the wait, eh buddy?
I don't care if you wanted pepperoni.
I buy, you eat.
That's the arrangement.

Oh. I have never had anything more satisfying in my mouth.
Ever!
Where have you been all my life,
Barbecue chicken and broccoli?
I'd propose marriage to you,
But you'll be gone in 20 minutes.
(only to magically reappear tomorrow for a brief reacquaintance.)

Two pieces left.
You interested?
Bitch.
Aight, I'll do it.
Mmmm. Oh. Ohhh. OHHHH!
That's the shit.

Now, I am satiated.

You know what I could really go for right now, buddy?
Oh, don't give me that look.
You know you want to smoke one too.
Liar.

Ok, I agree.
We need another nap.

Hour 13 (8 PM)
I don't want to wake up.
I suppose what I could do is,
Start chronicling my shitty ass day.
The first day of the rest of my (shitty) life.

Well, surely everyone wants to hear about this.
The trials and tribulations of a rambling, nicotine deprived maniac!

Oh. I need a snack.
You know, I can see why people put on so much weight when they quit.
Eating is just something to do.
An oral outlet.
I'd eat anything right about now. Ladies.

It reminds me of the first time I quit.
I ballooned up to 300 pounds.
293 to be exact.
Oh, I'm now a svelt 215 lbs. (on a 6'3 frame.)
I try to work out as often as I can.
By that I mean, whenever I feel like it.
I run.
I lift.
It's tougher to stay in shape now,
What with me being temporarily unemployed.
"Working" as a male stripper "construction worker"
Was a workout in and of itself.
Anyway, that's another story for another time.

Hour 15 (10 PM)
Well, chronicling my day took up a good...
2 hours.
Shit.

I'm taking Floyd for a walk.
Then I'm coming home,
Taking a double dose of Tylenol PM,
Putting on C-SPAN,
Cranking one out.
And going to sleep.
Well, maybe I'll type this up first.

Because, after all, tomorrow is another day.





Unfortunately.

The Quadratic Conundrum

Order is a relative term.

___________________________________________________

Lapses in judgement
Are the hallmark of my existence.

Who to trust?
What to do?
Where to go?

Always wrong.
To the point where I can no longer make a decision
Without second guessing myself.
Or second guessing my second guess.
Or second guessing that!

To be clear,
That's four decisions.
Three second guesses.

I've developed an equation for this instance,
Where d = decisions,
G = second guesses,
And j = my poor judgement.


d = G + j - 2dπ


Solve for d.

I've worked it out.
It always, no matter what, ends up the same answer.

d ALWAYS equals this:



you're a fucking idiot
________________

5G + |try again|π



Truthfully though, I've always sucked at math.
So my calculations may be waaaaaaayy off.
Don't care.

Untitled

"Contemplative" is not a welcome state for a madman.

_________________________________________________

Moribund fantasies cloud my sanity.
They tease and tantalize...
Like a siren song beckoning the sailor towards rocky shores.

My ship is sailing headfirst into the perilous waters.

Lament

A sea of red rushes forward.
Overrunning it's ashen, lily white constraints.
Brought forth by a tremendous sorrow.
Sorrow for things lost and never had.
Sorrow for things done and never tried.

It is brought forth by grievous anger.
Anger made bitter by years of neglect.
Anger compounded by madness.
Anger that has been fostered into hate.

Hatred for the one who fostered it.
Hatred running deeper each day,
Leaving a trail of ignominy and confusion in it's wake.

A sea of red rushes forward.
Overrunning it's ashen, lily white constraints.
Brought forth by the sword of Damocles,
which has dangled achingly close for far too long.
Bring close your blade and end this despair.
And with it, this sorrow ends.
This anger... ends.
This hatred... ends.

This life...

Timeline

12:30 in the morning.
Another night...
Alone.
I settle in with my notebook,
in my pajamas.
My very dapper pinstriped PJ's no less.
Got to look good for...
Floyd I guess.
I don't know.

Being alone has it's advantages.
And it's drawbacks.
Pro: I can watch Sportscenter in bed in peace.
Con: But nobody hears my pithy remarks.
Pro: No one to tell me not to eat that sausage grinder at...
12:34 AM.
Con: My large bed is always empty.
Con: No one to kiss goodnight.
Con: No one to wake up to in the morning.
Con: I love to cook. No one to cook for .
Pro: I make my own schedule. Go out when I want. Stay in when I feel like it.
Pro: Never forced into hanging out with people I don't like.
Pro: Extra angst gives me added impetus to write more.
Con: No one to bounce story ideas off of.
Pro: No one to criticize me.
Con: But there's no one to criticize me.
Pro: No birthday or anniversary to remember.
Con: Regular sex- out of the question.

12:38 in the morning.
Making a cup of tea.




12:45.
The quiet is almost asphyxiating.
Is this irony?
When my house is bustling with kids and family,
I'm annoyed.
And all I want is for them to leave.
But, when it's empty,
I'm happy,
But often become overwrought with crushing loneliness.

Is it irony?
Or just a self-fulfilling prophecy?


5:30 in the morning.
I just awoke from a dream.
I was feverishly searching for something.
A gun, as it turns out.
I searched all over.
My house.
My neighbor's house.
My aunt's house (she lives 2 hours away).
Finally, there I am: in Boston.
And there, on the empty street, I find my gun.
It's just laying on the sidewalk.
Like it was put there just for me.

I pick it up.
Put it to my temple;
Cock it;
And then... I hear a voice.

A little girl's voice, which I can't place.
I wander into the street to hear this disembodied voice clearer.
"I love you. I love you."
And suddenly, everything becomes clear.
I drop the gun and fall to my knees.

And as I close my eyes,
And begin to cry out in pain and anguish and rage,
An overwhelming feeling of calmness,
Of peace,
Rushes over me like a breeze on a crisp Autumn evening.

And at that very moment,
I open my eyes.

Just in time to see the city bus,
Which is now 5 feet away blaring it's horn.
As the bus' headlight cracks against my skull,

Needless to say,
This is the point that I woke up.

What does it mean?
Is it a sign?
And if it is...
What the hell does it signify?
That no matter what I do, I'm going to die, abruptly?

Is it about the tumultuousness of life,
manifested in a bus bearing down on me?
Why did I choose not to shoot myself?
I obviously wanted to.
But chose not to.
Why?


It all leads to one undeniable conclusion:



Never eat a sausage grinder right before bed.

My recent obsession

Been obsessing over Rilo Kiley alot recently.
Can't... stop... listening.
They are just so fucking awesome.
And absolutely NOBODY I know listens to them,
So I'm like a pariah.
I have to go into the corner and listen to them quietly,
while everyone else listens to their "good" music.
Kanye West, 50 Cent, Black Eyed Peas, Alicia Keys.
You know, the classics.

So, to appease me, and only me, I present my favorite Rilo Kiley tunes.
In no particular order.

Ripchord


Bulletproof


My Slumbering Heart (with false start)


More Adventurous

A chick playing the harmonica? Yes please!

It's A Hit



I could totally keep going on and on and on and on and on and on...

OK. One more.

I Never



Like I said, I could keep on going. Forever maybe. I have a huuuuuuuge crush on Jenny Lewis, the lead singer. And just hearing her voice is equivalent to 10 shots of rum (which, I am proud to say, I have successfully avoided for over a month now. Yay me! Back on the wagon!).

All I'm saying is, Jenny, I want to carry your babies. We can work out the logistics of it later.

meow meow meow meow

Top ten reasons I hate cats.

10. Those sandpaper tongues.
9. They are scratch whores. No mater how long you scratch them, they feel slighted if you stop. Whores.
8. They can never just sit down. They must knead their spot like bread dough. It's very disconcerting.
7. Hairballs
6. They sleep 18 hours a god damn day. (maybe that's just jealousy.)
5. The song Memory. (wait. that's my list of reasons I hate the musical Cats.)
4. They have the same look on their face if they see a shadow on the floor or a serial killer in the kitchen.
3. Litter boxes
2. They think they're better than everyone else.

And the numebr one reason I hate cats:
1. There's nothing better than stepping in a pile of cat vomit at 2 in the morning. Barefoot.

Next time: Things that make me want to vomit!

being alive

Tee-hee!

Top ten words that make me giggle because they sound dirty, but aren't.

10. titillate
9. homeowner
8. hoedown
7. himalaya
6. asteroid
5. dictation
4. oral
3. dickie
2. shitake

and the number one word that makes me giggle because it sounds dirty, but isn't:

cockswain.

cockswain. hehe.

I'm a big girl!

Okay. I don't care if anyone likes this. It amuses me. And right now, it's the only thing I seem to be able to write. So, once again, here's another Top Ten List.

The Top Ten reasons that I think I am a woman.

Number 10: I LOVE shoes.

Number 9: When I encounter a mouse, my first instinct is to jump on a chair and shriek as loud as I can.

Number 8: Once a month, for three days, I act like a total bitch to everyone I know.

Number 7: I never, EVER, pick up a check.

Number 6: I watch America's Next Top Model and criticize the girls (instead of ogle them.)

Number 5: I hate my body.

Number 4: I am constantly asking if these pants make my butt look big.

Number 3: Gossip is my life blood.

Number 2: I (think I) know everything.

And the number one reason I think I am a woman:

Because, after a long night of making love, the next day my vagina is sore.




Hi-ooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Fucking Floyd

Well, he's started the Fight Club again. Little bastard. Have a little respect and attack me when I'm awake, is all I'm saying. Pussy.



Pussy.

Top Ten List

I know I stole this from David Letterman.
But I don't care.
So, without further ado (was there any ado?)
Here are the top ten reasons I fear I may be turning British.

Number ten: I walk around with an undeserved sense of superiority.

Number nine (number nine. number nine.): I hate the Irish.

Number eight: I find myself more and more using words like whilst, pukka, and jim jams.

Number seven: 90% of Americans make me want to colonize them and rule them iron-fisted-ly. (I like hyphens.)

Number six: I find Rowan Atkinson funny...... sometimes. (Funny thing is, I've been told British people don't even find Rowan Atkinson funny. Go figure.)

Number five: I consider Canada my bastard step-child.

Number four: I have an unusual appreciation for tea.

Number three: I have a tendency for using overtly grandiose language for the sole intention of making myself seem smarter.

Number two: I (secretly) hate America.

And the number one reason I fear I may be becoming British:

I mistakenly drank a warm beer.... And I loved it!















There. And I did it without making one bad teeth joke or commenting on their latent homosexuality.


Oops! Dammit.


Stay tuned for upcoming top ten lists, including why I think I am a woman, and why I hate cats. Riveting!

God Bless Dennis Leary

Life's Gonna Suck (When You Grow Up)




Wanna know a little more about me? Here goes...




Bubblegum Schnapps!




The Future of Earth

OMFG! My nephew was painted by Edvard Munch!

OK. This is my sister's sonagram. Other than being really weird looking, my new nephew bears a strange resemblance to a very famous work of art.














Kinda creepy, isn't it?

Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.

What a schmuck I am. I was totally planning a Dr. Seuss post for this week. I was completely convinced that his birthday was Monday, March 10th. Well, if you haven't noticed by now, I'm a moron. His birthday was last week. So I suppose I'll have to do this beofer it gets too late, otherwise soon it will be too late even to be later. (I stole that line) So here it is. My favorite Dr. Seuss story. No not Horton. No not The Cat in the Hat. Not One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. Not The Grinch (but that's close). Not Yertle the Turtle.

I adore this man. His use of meter and rhyme and fantastical elements was the epitome of cleverness and wit. I have been working on a Seuss-ish poem, but it's not ready. I will post it one of these days. Anyway, here it is, my favorite (although trite and overused) story from Dr. Seuss.

Oh, the Places You'll Go!

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You're off to Great Places!
You're off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You're on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go.

You'll look up and down streets. Look 'em over with care.
About some you will say, "I don't choose to go there."
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you're too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any
you'll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you'll head straight out of town.

It's opener there
in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
don't worry. Don't stew.
Just go right along.
You'll start happening too.

OH!
THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!

You'll be on your way up!
You'll be seeing great sights!
You'll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.

You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed.
You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you'll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don' t
Because, sometimes, you won't.

I'm sorry to say so
but, sadly, it's true
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You'll be left in a Lurch.

You'll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you'll be in a Slump.

And when you're in a Slump,
you're not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right...
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused
that you'll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place...

...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That's not for you!

Somehow you'll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You'll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping,
once more you'll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you're that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You'll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don't.
Because, sometimes, they won't.

I'm afraid that some times
you'll play lonely games too.
Games you can't win
'cause you'll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you'll be quite a lot.

And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike
and I know you'll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You'll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3 / 4 percent guaranteed.)

KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

So...
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,
you're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So...get on your way!

ID please

I love getting carded at the liquor store. It's a good sign. It means that there is a possibility that I am not as old as I feel. And it means I've been taking better care of myself than I thought, if someone thinks I may be under 21. And in this case, I was only buying cigarettes. So they thought I might be under 18! Honestly, I think the girl at the counter just wanted to see how old I was. Cause if she thought I was 17 years old, she's blind.

See girls, you're not the only ones who worry about how they look.