11:11
I wish I were dead.
The pervasive notion that fills my consciousness. Drowning out all other forms of cogent thought. Choking to death the little joy left in a hollow, petty existence.
Moribund fantasies cloud my sanity. The pounding of a drum so loud, I have often mistaken it for my own beating heart.
Yet, here I am. A fully functioning, capable adult who, if one truly wished to do so, could easily bring to a close this tumult. This inner turmoil “bordering” on psychotic delusion.
Yet… here I am.
Which begs the question: Why?
Why am I still here? Is it fate? Is it a grand plan? Are you meant for more? Or are you, simply put, a pussy?
It can be as simple as that. There’s no need to ascribe some grander notion to it. No need to think on it further. There is a job that you say needs to be done. A job with a single purpose. Performable by even the weakest of minds.
Yet…
Here I am.
1:11
I wish I were dead. More than yesterday and exponentially more than the day before, and if my record continues, exponentially more so tomorrow.
This is absurd. You are absurd.
Sorrow knows no bounds, it is said. If so, then why I am I bound by sorrow? A melancholy usually reserved for teenage girls and Danish princes, is mine.
As I stare across the haze of a smoke filled room being lit intermittently by the pull off of a cigarette, a clarity starts to pervade me. A clarity of purpose. A peace interrupts my normally bellicose mind.
Its too quiet. Please say something. Anything.
You are much too simple. You see black and white. Not the varying shades of grey that life is. Forrest was right, life is like a box of chocolates. One day, life is a pecan cluster with oozing caramel and sweet chocolate, and your life is a virtual diabetic coma of happiness. The next, well, I’m sorry, your girl is gone, you lost your job and, my good man, you have chosen a raspberry crème that tastes like what I imagine blackboard chalk tastes like, only grittier.
This is the crapshoot of life. Seven come eleven, daddy needs a new pair of everything.
You give everything you have and it is never enough. Happiness as an adult is unachievable. Only children and the clinically insane are capable. But even the latter have difficulty, as I may attest. It requires a certain type of mental case. The ones who are not aware of their surroundings usually have the best chance at happiness. One who is fully aware of who they are and what they are, not so much.
Blow after soul crushing blow we are beaten down to accept misery and lament as happiness and content. This is all there is. Get used to it. Make amends with it. And try not to kill yourself. It is a harrowing proposition.
Yet….
Monday, January 24, 2011
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
FACT: Blogging is pretentious.
I think I got into blogging about two years ago. But I've been bitching about my life for a lot longer than that. I was pushed into blogging by friends. Friends who, I can only surmise, were anxious for me to stop laying all my shit at their front doors.
It seemed innocuous enough. Blogging. It seemed like a nice place to work out frustration... to work out my neuroses and also my technical insufficiencies.
But my writing never flourished as I had imagined it would. The internets is a fickle bitch. She takes your hard work and makes you sit there as you realize that your pie in the sky aspirations are just that. There is nothing special about any of us. The only special thing about anyone on the internet is some of them have an innate ability to sell themselves. They are born to braggadoche (not a word. but it was euphonious and i went with it.). They are master manipulators. That is all this world has come down to: Salesmanship.
Who can put themselves into the prettiest package?
Did I display enough internal conflict externally today? Or do I have to tell them about the time I almost got into a three way with my cousin?
Do I have to bare my soul, only to have "RipperChazzz31" comment that I'm a "... pussy who should crawl out youre[sic] mommas[sic] ass and visit the real world."?
Would that real world include you? Because honestly, I'm good.
There is no real world anymore. Real is imaginary. We create these sprawling, detailed, fictional accounts of our lives, so intricate, Dickens himself would applaud with jealously. We co-opt our imagination and make it our reality. Who knows whether or not its true... that doesn't matter. What matters is how many hits your site got today.
Man it sucks when that hit counter just doesn't move. When the only people who visit your site are the occasional wrong click, or the not so occasional hit from a masturbating cyber nerd who happens upon your post from two years ago about how hot the chicks from Battlestar Galactica are. Seriously. I have your IP address, Emir of Bhutan.
So to get your blog out there, you visit other people's blogs and are forced to leave comments and shamelessly pimp you blog without looking like you're shamelessly pimping your blog. It takes a special kind of deceitfulness to be able to do this and be undetected.
I just was never wired like that. I thought the blog should speak for itself. I thought pithy writing and soul baring on a semi-daily basis would be good enough. It was. For about a week. Then, when people finally read my shit, and somewhat enjoyed it, I took that as encouragement.
Shame on you people. Never encourage a delusional. It's unfair and unkind to everyone involved.
To a delusional, this was it. This was the payoff. I was already a millionaire. I was pimping my ride and loving every minute of it.
Then the next morning rolled around. And I had to think of more bullshit. And eventually, the bullshit well ran dry. I'm talking dry. I was envious of the Joads.
Cut to a year later and I am a changed man. I'm less confident, more disturbed, more addled than ever. Less sure of my abilities. All things, I'm certain, that make for an eminently readable and thoroughly enjoyable blog-sperience.
Don't get used to me.
It seemed innocuous enough. Blogging. It seemed like a nice place to work out frustration... to work out my neuroses and also my technical insufficiencies.
But my writing never flourished as I had imagined it would. The internets is a fickle bitch. She takes your hard work and makes you sit there as you realize that your pie in the sky aspirations are just that. There is nothing special about any of us. The only special thing about anyone on the internet is some of them have an innate ability to sell themselves. They are born to braggadoche (not a word. but it was euphonious and i went with it.). They are master manipulators. That is all this world has come down to: Salesmanship.
Who can put themselves into the prettiest package?
Did I display enough internal conflict externally today? Or do I have to tell them about the time I almost got into a three way with my cousin?
Do I have to bare my soul, only to have "RipperChazzz31" comment that I'm a "... pussy who should crawl out youre[sic] mommas[sic] ass and visit the real world."?
Would that real world include you? Because honestly, I'm good.
There is no real world anymore. Real is imaginary. We create these sprawling, detailed, fictional accounts of our lives, so intricate, Dickens himself would applaud with jealously. We co-opt our imagination and make it our reality. Who knows whether or not its true... that doesn't matter. What matters is how many hits your site got today.
Man it sucks when that hit counter just doesn't move. When the only people who visit your site are the occasional wrong click, or the not so occasional hit from a masturbating cyber nerd who happens upon your post from two years ago about how hot the chicks from Battlestar Galactica are. Seriously. I have your IP address, Emir of Bhutan.
So to get your blog out there, you visit other people's blogs and are forced to leave comments and shamelessly pimp you blog without looking like you're shamelessly pimping your blog. It takes a special kind of deceitfulness to be able to do this and be undetected.
I just was never wired like that. I thought the blog should speak for itself. I thought pithy writing and soul baring on a semi-daily basis would be good enough. It was. For about a week. Then, when people finally read my shit, and somewhat enjoyed it, I took that as encouragement.
Shame on you people. Never encourage a delusional. It's unfair and unkind to everyone involved.
To a delusional, this was it. This was the payoff. I was already a millionaire. I was pimping my ride and loving every minute of it.
Then the next morning rolled around. And I had to think of more bullshit. And eventually, the bullshit well ran dry. I'm talking dry. I was envious of the Joads.
Cut to a year later and I am a changed man. I'm less confident, more disturbed, more addled than ever. Less sure of my abilities. All things, I'm certain, that make for an eminently readable and thoroughly enjoyable blog-sperience.
Don't get used to me.
Monday, November 24, 2008
As I sat at my keyboard, desperately searching for a topic to write about but finding only trite aphorisms and hollow observances, it struck me. It finally struck me, I should say.
The answer I have been searching for my entire life.
The answer to a question not yet asked, never posited nor even contemplated. A question of self. A question of simultaneous grand importance and of gross insignificance. A question too important to ignore, but impossible to answer.
A man is only capable of finding this answer at the end of a long journey. A journey of sprit, mind, and body. A journey of innocence, of love, of discovery, of disappointment, of heartache, of redemption, and of ultimate sacrifice.
One does not embark on this journey lightly. It is of the utmost import that the journey be fruitful and have a meaning. The journey must not be in vain.
What struck me at that moment was a vivid memory. A memory of my brother.
I was 27 and he was 36. I hadn't seen him for quite some time. Going on a year and a half, which was an eternity for us. He and I were inseparable. Wherever you found Mark, I was sure to follow.
From an early age, I was transfixed by him. Things seemed to come so easy for Mark. He got the girls, had nice cars, plenty of money. It was only when I became an "adult" that I realized that, despite outward appearnces to the contrary, he was as flawed as anyone else. Perhaps even moreso.
We spent many years together developing the drug addictions that would one day take our lives. Some people would say they were taken the moment the addiction began.
I am one of those people.
When I was 27, I saw him again. It was three in the morning, on a Tuesday. I was awoken by my cell phone ringing. My first thought was "I need a new ringtone" followed immediately by "Who the fuck is calling me at this time of night?"
"Mr. Cliburn?" an almost apologetic voice asked.
"Yes."
"Archibald Cliburn?"
"Yes. Can I ask who this is?"
"Yes, this is Mandy Robbins. I'm a nurse at St. Luke's Hospital in Bedford. I have you listed down as emergency contact and next of kin for a Mark Cliburn. Is this correct?"
"Yes, but my brother has lived in Florida for over a year now.... So, may I ask what this pertains to?"
"Certainly sir. But I must ask that you come to the hospital. All I can say over the phone is that Mark is very sick and you are the only person he has been asking for. He refuses to to talk to anyone. Not even his wife."
"I'll be there as soon as possible. Please tell him that. Thank you Miss Robbins."
My arrival at the hosptal was greeted with ambivalence by Mark's family. They were of the belief that it was I who was responsible for his problems. That I enabled him to the point where there was no turning back. No recovery. No redemption.
This was, of course, asinine. I didn't enable him. We enabled each other. That's how codependence works. That's how addiction works. You seek out like-minded individuals who are just as fragile and tormented as yourself, and you make them your life. They are your family, as sad as it sounds. They are your perceived reality, for nothing is real in this world. All relationships are predicated on one solitary fact-- We need to get high.
I was brought to his room and was aghast at what I saw. My once vibrant brother prone, motionless, gaunt. I wanted to cry.
He awoke to me sitting by his bed reading, as I always did when he was in the hospital. An addict's second home is the hospital.
He smiled a painful smile. His teeth had nearly rotted out of his head. He couldn't have weighed more than 150 pounds. I don't know what it is he had been doing, but it was killing him.
We spent a few minutes catching up. And then he asked me the question that would haunt me for the rest of my life:
"Arch... Archie, will you kill me? Please. Just.... Please. I just want it over. Please."
How does one respond to that?
He spent the next thiry minutes pleading with me, listing the reasons for me to do this. The crazy part, some of them made sense.
"How?" is all I could say at that point.
His hand unrolled, and two syringes fell onto the bed.
"It should only take one. But just to be sure..."
"Mark..."
"Arch," he said, the quavering in his voice was heartbreaking, "Arch, please."
We spent the next hour figuring out how to tell the families. He was pretty well prepared for this, I must say.
I took a few paces around the room. I lit a cigarette for us to share before the time came. It was more for him than me. My lungs were so constricted at that point, I could barely breathe.
I approached him slowly, picking up the two syringes. I inspected them carefully. Morphine. One syringe had enough to kill a man three times. And I had two of them.
I brought the needle to the IV stand, looked at him, and began to cry. He cried as well. I managed to tell him I loved him through the tears.
"I love you too."
I depressed the plunger. He shot straight up from the bed, almost into a sitting position. He looked at me again, his lips began to move, but there was no sound. I brought myself closer. With his lips to my ears, I heard his final words.
"Live, Archie. Live whatever life you want. There is no changing the outcome. You can't escape it."
My keyboard catharsis was directly related to that moment.
I realized I still had that other syringe. And it needed to be done.
I laid down on the couch to think about things for a minute.
It felt cold. I sat straight up, gasping for air.
You can't change the outcome. Live the life you want, not the one you are expected to lead.
As I laid there, dying, I looked at the needle hanging from my arm. My head felt heavy, so I laid it down on the edge of the couch. As I drifted away, I heard the faint sound of the front door opening. The last image I remember seeing was a pale, gaunt, shadowy figure, who couldn't have weighed more than 150 pounds...
The answer I have been searching for my entire life.
The answer to a question not yet asked, never posited nor even contemplated. A question of self. A question of simultaneous grand importance and of gross insignificance. A question too important to ignore, but impossible to answer.
A man is only capable of finding this answer at the end of a long journey. A journey of sprit, mind, and body. A journey of innocence, of love, of discovery, of disappointment, of heartache, of redemption, and of ultimate sacrifice.
One does not embark on this journey lightly. It is of the utmost import that the journey be fruitful and have a meaning. The journey must not be in vain.
What struck me at that moment was a vivid memory. A memory of my brother.
I was 27 and he was 36. I hadn't seen him for quite some time. Going on a year and a half, which was an eternity for us. He and I were inseparable. Wherever you found Mark, I was sure to follow.
From an early age, I was transfixed by him. Things seemed to come so easy for Mark. He got the girls, had nice cars, plenty of money. It was only when I became an "adult" that I realized that, despite outward appearnces to the contrary, he was as flawed as anyone else. Perhaps even moreso.
We spent many years together developing the drug addictions that would one day take our lives. Some people would say they were taken the moment the addiction began.
I am one of those people.
When I was 27, I saw him again. It was three in the morning, on a Tuesday. I was awoken by my cell phone ringing. My first thought was "I need a new ringtone" followed immediately by "Who the fuck is calling me at this time of night?"
"Mr. Cliburn?" an almost apologetic voice asked.
"Yes."
"Archibald Cliburn?"
"Yes. Can I ask who this is?"
"Yes, this is Mandy Robbins. I'm a nurse at St. Luke's Hospital in Bedford. I have you listed down as emergency contact and next of kin for a Mark Cliburn. Is this correct?"
"Yes, but my brother has lived in Florida for over a year now.... So, may I ask what this pertains to?"
"Certainly sir. But I must ask that you come to the hospital. All I can say over the phone is that Mark is very sick and you are the only person he has been asking for. He refuses to to talk to anyone. Not even his wife."
"I'll be there as soon as possible. Please tell him that. Thank you Miss Robbins."
My arrival at the hosptal was greeted with ambivalence by Mark's family. They were of the belief that it was I who was responsible for his problems. That I enabled him to the point where there was no turning back. No recovery. No redemption.
This was, of course, asinine. I didn't enable him. We enabled each other. That's how codependence works. That's how addiction works. You seek out like-minded individuals who are just as fragile and tormented as yourself, and you make them your life. They are your family, as sad as it sounds. They are your perceived reality, for nothing is real in this world. All relationships are predicated on one solitary fact-- We need to get high.
I was brought to his room and was aghast at what I saw. My once vibrant brother prone, motionless, gaunt. I wanted to cry.
He awoke to me sitting by his bed reading, as I always did when he was in the hospital. An addict's second home is the hospital.
He smiled a painful smile. His teeth had nearly rotted out of his head. He couldn't have weighed more than 150 pounds. I don't know what it is he had been doing, but it was killing him.
We spent a few minutes catching up. And then he asked me the question that would haunt me for the rest of my life:
"Arch... Archie, will you kill me? Please. Just.... Please. I just want it over. Please."
How does one respond to that?
He spent the next thiry minutes pleading with me, listing the reasons for me to do this. The crazy part, some of them made sense.
"How?" is all I could say at that point.
His hand unrolled, and two syringes fell onto the bed.
"It should only take one. But just to be sure..."
"Mark..."
"Arch," he said, the quavering in his voice was heartbreaking, "Arch, please."
We spent the next hour figuring out how to tell the families. He was pretty well prepared for this, I must say.
I took a few paces around the room. I lit a cigarette for us to share before the time came. It was more for him than me. My lungs were so constricted at that point, I could barely breathe.
I approached him slowly, picking up the two syringes. I inspected them carefully. Morphine. One syringe had enough to kill a man three times. And I had two of them.
I brought the needle to the IV stand, looked at him, and began to cry. He cried as well. I managed to tell him I loved him through the tears.
"I love you too."
I depressed the plunger. He shot straight up from the bed, almost into a sitting position. He looked at me again, his lips began to move, but there was no sound. I brought myself closer. With his lips to my ears, I heard his final words.
"Live, Archie. Live whatever life you want. There is no changing the outcome. You can't escape it."
My keyboard catharsis was directly related to that moment.
I realized I still had that other syringe. And it needed to be done.
I laid down on the couch to think about things for a minute.
It felt cold. I sat straight up, gasping for air.
You can't change the outcome. Live the life you want, not the one you are expected to lead.
As I laid there, dying, I looked at the needle hanging from my arm. My head felt heavy, so I laid it down on the edge of the couch. As I drifted away, I heard the faint sound of the front door opening. The last image I remember seeing was a pale, gaunt, shadowy figure, who couldn't have weighed more than 150 pounds...
Saturday, October 11, 2008
A Glutton For Punishment
Ladies and gentlemen, you have just born witness to what I would classify as a microcosm of every relationship I've ever had in my entire life. It followed the same trajectory and had the same ending.
First, there's the initial acquainting of the parties. Its usually quite cordial. I make you laugh, you make me laugh, we share stories about ourselves and eventually we become trusting enough to share some deep secret we keep from most everyone else.
Then there is the middle of the relationship. You get tired of my dumb jokes, I get tired of yours. Suddenly those stories we told each other are not as endearing as we had first perceived them to be. And the secrets? Ha! What we have learned in meantime was far more discouraging and quite frankly, disheartening than anything we ever designated as "secret".
And then, there is the end. One day, with absolutely no readily apparent reason, I'm gone.
No note.
No conversation.
Not even a goddamn email.
Just.... gone.
Like it never happened.
And I rather like it. I've become stuck in my ways, and its too late to change them now. I will go on from one forgettable, meaningless, befuddling relationship to the next. You weren't the first, and by no means the last.
For some reason, I thought when I started this whole blog thing that it would be a natural conduit for my writing. Nay. Instead, it has only sharpened my writer's block and made me less and less confident in my writings. And it became something I never imagined it would: read.
I never intended anyone to read my blog. I never wanted anyone to read it. But people did. So I kept writing. Only now, it was more personal. Which irked me to no end.
I'm a fairly private man. Getting me to share the details of my day at work used to be a chore for most people, let alone the inner workings of my insane thought processes. But you all got a front row seat.
And what's even more nuts? People enjoyed it. What you enjoyed about it, I'll never know.
I just feel that I'm not cut out to be someone who blogs about their personal life. It's not my thing. I fear I've already divulged far too much than I ever really intended.
But I do enjoy writing for you. And with the influx of story ideas I've had recently and over the last few months, I think there is material enough to satiate the people who care enough to read it. And for the ones who don't care, well honestly, I don't give a fuck.
So get ready for a heavy dose of morose fiction, boring drama, and insipid comedy. I'll post portions of my myriad of unfinished plays and essays and short stories that I've never bothered to flesh out. Of course I'll tie a neat little bow on them so that they look new, but let's be honest here. You know it and I know it. There are no more original ideas left to be written about. There are just variations on a tired theme.
We as a civilization will go on telling the same old dumbass morality tales we've always told. The same stories with the same old predictable plots and even more predictable endings. No originality, no pinache, no... I don't know what.
Unless, of course, some mad man tried to change all of that.
But who? WHO DAMMIT?!?!
First, there's the initial acquainting of the parties. Its usually quite cordial. I make you laugh, you make me laugh, we share stories about ourselves and eventually we become trusting enough to share some deep secret we keep from most everyone else.
Then there is the middle of the relationship. You get tired of my dumb jokes, I get tired of yours. Suddenly those stories we told each other are not as endearing as we had first perceived them to be. And the secrets? Ha! What we have learned in meantime was far more discouraging and quite frankly, disheartening than anything we ever designated as "secret".
And then, there is the end. One day, with absolutely no readily apparent reason, I'm gone.
No note.
No conversation.
Not even a goddamn email.
Just.... gone.
Like it never happened.
And I rather like it. I've become stuck in my ways, and its too late to change them now. I will go on from one forgettable, meaningless, befuddling relationship to the next. You weren't the first, and by no means the last.
For some reason, I thought when I started this whole blog thing that it would be a natural conduit for my writing. Nay. Instead, it has only sharpened my writer's block and made me less and less confident in my writings. And it became something I never imagined it would: read.
I never intended anyone to read my blog. I never wanted anyone to read it. But people did. So I kept writing. Only now, it was more personal. Which irked me to no end.
I'm a fairly private man. Getting me to share the details of my day at work used to be a chore for most people, let alone the inner workings of my insane thought processes. But you all got a front row seat.
And what's even more nuts? People enjoyed it. What you enjoyed about it, I'll never know.
I just feel that I'm not cut out to be someone who blogs about their personal life. It's not my thing. I fear I've already divulged far too much than I ever really intended.
But I do enjoy writing for you. And with the influx of story ideas I've had recently and over the last few months, I think there is material enough to satiate the people who care enough to read it. And for the ones who don't care, well honestly, I don't give a fuck.
So get ready for a heavy dose of morose fiction, boring drama, and insipid comedy. I'll post portions of my myriad of unfinished plays and essays and short stories that I've never bothered to flesh out. Of course I'll tie a neat little bow on them so that they look new, but let's be honest here. You know it and I know it. There are no more original ideas left to be written about. There are just variations on a tired theme.
We as a civilization will go on telling the same old dumbass morality tales we've always told. The same stories with the same old predictable plots and even more predictable endings. No originality, no pinache, no... I don't know what.
Unless, of course, some mad man tried to change all of that.
But who? WHO DAMMIT?!?!
Monday, August 18, 2008
Canada Sucks
So I was writing this post tonight about the Olympics and I got really into it. Really into it. And it got ugly. I spent quite a few paragraphs on the Chinese manipulation of the judging, and their blatant prejudice against Canadians. But honeslty, who doesn't hate Canada?
OOOH! We have an extraordinarily low crime rate. Oh, we have such a beautiful country. Everyone here has easily accesible health care. Our air is actually clean!
Just zip it, Canucklehead. You are and will always be nothing more... than America's hat.***
Anyway, I think I may need to edit it down a little, and suffice it to say, I will not be posting it tonight. I just don't have the strength.
I'm trying to have a little self restraint. I am attempting to eat nothing after 8 PM. And this is quite the task for this guy. I love midnight snacks. Pretty much anything will do, ice cream, cookies. You know, the basics. But I like to get a little crazy sometimes. I make this sandwich that has peanut butter and jelly (strawberry jam, to be precise) and I layer over it... Are you ready for this? Potato chips. Swear to God, it's fucking religious. And it's not just for potato chips... any salty, cracker-like product will do. Cheez-its? Sure. Wheat Thins? Why not? Chicken in a bisket? Okay, but don't get too crazy on me here. Garlic and Parmesan croutons? Alright, now you've gone round the bend. Just stop it.
Or Chinese food, speaking of the Olympics. There is nothing better than finishing off your order of General Gau's Chicken silently crouched next to your refrigerator, lights off, being illuminated only by the half cracked door of the fridge. You of course need a little light to make sure that you don't accidentally eat one of those ridiculously hot peppers at the bottom, which BTW, somehow Floyd was fooled into thinking it was a soarerib. I don't knwo who could have done such thing to him. It was hilarious. But I digress. There you are, praying that no one discovers you in your gluttonous state. Well, my gluttonous state, I suppose. What, you guys act like you've never done that before.
Liars.
By the way, what do you guys call Genreal Gau's where you live? I've heard so many variations on it, it's hard to know who the real General was. I mean, we celebrate him each time we order his delicious chicken, along with an order of the shrimp lo mein and some boneless spareribs. I'm just saying, I want to know who the man really is that made such a delectable dish. So please, weigh in.
But ultimately, eating spicy food at midnight is not really a smart move. I used to be able to do it. Now I just get heartburn the whole next day. It's really quite unpleasant. And thus, not worth it anymore.
So I'm going clean again. Without Cold Turkey, as it were. {I'm silently chuckling, and I don't really care if you are too. It pleased me.}
I must end this quickly, as I fear I may not have the strength to write much more. This lack of caloric intake is affecting me in strange ways. Must... have... Saturated Fats!
*** My apologies to any Canadians offended by these statements.
OOOH! We have an extraordinarily low crime rate. Oh, we have such a beautiful country. Everyone here has easily accesible health care. Our air is actually clean!
Just zip it, Canucklehead. You are and will always be nothing more... than America's hat.***
Anyway, I think I may need to edit it down a little, and suffice it to say, I will not be posting it tonight. I just don't have the strength.
I'm trying to have a little self restraint. I am attempting to eat nothing after 8 PM. And this is quite the task for this guy. I love midnight snacks. Pretty much anything will do, ice cream, cookies. You know, the basics. But I like to get a little crazy sometimes. I make this sandwich that has peanut butter and jelly (strawberry jam, to be precise) and I layer over it... Are you ready for this? Potato chips. Swear to God, it's fucking religious. And it's not just for potato chips... any salty, cracker-like product will do. Cheez-its? Sure. Wheat Thins? Why not? Chicken in a bisket? Okay, but don't get too crazy on me here. Garlic and Parmesan croutons? Alright, now you've gone round the bend. Just stop it.
Or Chinese food, speaking of the Olympics. There is nothing better than finishing off your order of General Gau's Chicken silently crouched next to your refrigerator, lights off, being illuminated only by the half cracked door of the fridge. You of course need a little light to make sure that you don't accidentally eat one of those ridiculously hot peppers at the bottom, which BTW, somehow Floyd was fooled into thinking it was a soarerib. I don't knwo who could have done such thing to him. It was hilarious. But I digress. There you are, praying that no one discovers you in your gluttonous state. Well, my gluttonous state, I suppose. What, you guys act like you've never done that before.
Liars.
By the way, what do you guys call Genreal Gau's where you live? I've heard so many variations on it, it's hard to know who the real General was. I mean, we celebrate him each time we order his delicious chicken, along with an order of the shrimp lo mein and some boneless spareribs. I'm just saying, I want to know who the man really is that made such a delectable dish. So please, weigh in.
But ultimately, eating spicy food at midnight is not really a smart move. I used to be able to do it. Now I just get heartburn the whole next day. It's really quite unpleasant. And thus, not worth it anymore.
So I'm going clean again. Without Cold Turkey, as it were. {I'm silently chuckling, and I don't really care if you are too. It pleased me.}
I must end this quickly, as I fear I may not have the strength to write much more. This lack of caloric intake is affecting me in strange ways. Must... have... Saturated Fats!
*** My apologies to any Canadians offended by these statements.
I'm not kidding...
I promise a post by the end of business today. And not a crappy one either, one where I just bitch and moan (a lot) more than I usually do. No, no, no. I promise a good one.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
It's these fahrblunget times we live in. I'm telling ya. It's enough to make ya kvetch.
I've been talking myself out of blogging a lot. I have literally 7's of posts started but ultimately left unpublished. I keep a notebook with me all day, and I write down any brilliant ideas that pass through my mind. But honestly, those are few and far between. Mostly my mind conjures up idiotic nuggets like these:
What's the deal with this guy being such a douchebag?
Why do we need pennies?
Come to think of it, why do we need nickels either? I'm sick of both of 'em.
That girl was way too young to be wearing that.
That woman was too old to be wearing that.
How many times can I hear this one song today? I put the over/under at around 9.
So you see what I've had to work with. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I have lost the ability to convey my thoughts down into my fingers, through them into the keys, and from what I've been told, the words then travel through a series of tubes and eventually, they land on your lap...top. But I can't do that anymore. NOoooooooooo, I am unable to... Case in point, I can't even finish that sentence.
This would be mildly distressing if I wasn't certain that I will eventually figure it out and get back to normal, and Adam will ostensibly have gotten his groove back.
See what I'm saying? Pop culture references from the early 90's! Oy gevald!
Yiddish too Adam?
What a shonde.
What's the deal with this guy being such a douchebag?
Why do we need pennies?
Come to think of it, why do we need nickels either? I'm sick of both of 'em.
That girl was way too young to be wearing that.
That woman was too old to be wearing that.
How many times can I hear this one song today? I put the over/under at around 9.
So you see what I've had to work with. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I have lost the ability to convey my thoughts down into my fingers, through them into the keys, and from what I've been told, the words then travel through a series of tubes and eventually, they land on your lap...top. But I can't do that anymore. NOoooooooooo, I am unable to... Case in point, I can't even finish that sentence.
This would be mildly distressing if I wasn't certain that I will eventually figure it out and get back to normal, and Adam will ostensibly have gotten his groove back.
See what I'm saying? Pop culture references from the early 90's! Oy gevald!
Yiddish too Adam?
What a shonde.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Stop it before you hurt yourself
So this idiot at work has spent the last three months trying to prove to me that he has a broader base of knowledge when it pertains to music than I do. I have to laugh at this guy. Everyday is a an episode of Name that Tune. It's rather bothersome. I'm just trying to make it through the day, and this guy is relentless.
What band did the song "Hello Skinny"?
How the fuck should I know? Oh, The Residents. Silly me. I should have known it was an obscure surrealist band from the 70's. A band so obscure, nobody even knows the names of the people in it. It's true. Look it up.
But he lost all credibility last week, His claim that Kansas was the best band of the last 30 years almost made my head explode.
Kansas. Really?
I wasn't even sure how to respond. I mean it was just...
Kansas? Dust in the Wind, Carry on my Wayward Son, synthesizers and keytars? That Kansas?
For a second, I thought I was getting Punk'd. Then I remembered that that show has been neither relevant or in production for some time now. So I dismissed it. Then I considered the possibility that I had indeed crossed over into... The Twilight Zone.
Because failing that, I have no other explanation for his utterly ridiculous claim.
I did get to blow that guy's mind though. And it was kinda fun. Alanis Morisette's "Ironic" came on the radio (For a supposedly manly place, the music is pretty lame. Safe to say a popular tune there involves a girl who is not really interested in writing a song in which she professes her love to another person, and most especially not if she is writing it because she is being forced to do so. No way, sister. Not this girl)
Anyway, the song came on, and this guy went where any person who is unable to let go of stupid jokes goes.
"You know, none of this stuff is really ironic. They're all just coincidences."
So I, of course, had to set this moron straight.
"Actually, they're not really coincidences at all. Just unfortunate turns of events. And furthermore, if you knew what ironic meant, you would agree that the title is most certainly appropriate. Irony is an incongruence between what is expected and what actually happens. In my opinion, what could be more "ironic" than a song called "Ironic" that contains no actual irony?"
He just sat there. I wasn't sure if it was because he was still trying to figure out what incongruence meant, or if I just completely threw him for a mental loop. But it was kind of funny and sad at the time.
By the way, I have it on good authority that she called the song "Ironic" mainly because "Well, Wasn't That Unfortunate" just didn't have the same Pop! to it.
What band did the song "Hello Skinny"?
How the fuck should I know? Oh, The Residents. Silly me. I should have known it was an obscure surrealist band from the 70's. A band so obscure, nobody even knows the names of the people in it. It's true. Look it up.
But he lost all credibility last week, His claim that Kansas was the best band of the last 30 years almost made my head explode.
Kansas. Really?
I wasn't even sure how to respond. I mean it was just...
Kansas? Dust in the Wind, Carry on my Wayward Son, synthesizers and keytars? That Kansas?
For a second, I thought I was getting Punk'd. Then I remembered that that show has been neither relevant or in production for some time now. So I dismissed it. Then I considered the possibility that I had indeed crossed over into... The Twilight Zone.
Because failing that, I have no other explanation for his utterly ridiculous claim.
I did get to blow that guy's mind though. And it was kinda fun. Alanis Morisette's "Ironic" came on the radio (For a supposedly manly place, the music is pretty lame. Safe to say a popular tune there involves a girl who is not really interested in writing a song in which she professes her love to another person, and most especially not if she is writing it because she is being forced to do so. No way, sister. Not this girl)
Anyway, the song came on, and this guy went where any person who is unable to let go of stupid jokes goes.
"You know, none of this stuff is really ironic. They're all just coincidences."
So I, of course, had to set this moron straight.
"Actually, they're not really coincidences at all. Just unfortunate turns of events. And furthermore, if you knew what ironic meant, you would agree that the title is most certainly appropriate. Irony is an incongruence between what is expected and what actually happens. In my opinion, what could be more "ironic" than a song called "Ironic" that contains no actual irony?"
He just sat there. I wasn't sure if it was because he was still trying to figure out what incongruence meant, or if I just completely threw him for a mental loop. But it was kind of funny and sad at the time.
By the way, I have it on good authority that she called the song "Ironic" mainly because "Well, Wasn't That Unfortunate" just didn't have the same Pop! to it.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Bitch Session
I've been confined to a bed for most of the past thirty hours. I don't have the flu. I didn't break an ankle. There wasn't an ALF marathon on TV Land, though I wish there were. I just loved ALF. I had an Alf sleeping bag for years and years and years. Until it finally wore out from too much use. Now I suppose I'll have to find a new sleeping bag.
No, this thirty hour binge of chain smoking and sleep that borders on comatose was brought on by my arch enemy: Life.
I just fucking hate that guy.
I'm not really going to get into the specifics of my situation, other than to say this is not the first time I've done something like this.
I don't deal with stress very well. It's not wired into my brain to react correctly to fucked up situations. I adhere to a strict policy of hiding from my problems and eventually, they'll just go away.
And that approach has delivered time after time, with consistent results.
I've grown resentful of Floyd. And that's not right. It's not fair to him anymore. It's not his fault his owner is a dirtbag who has no intentions of ever coming back for him.
And I have no real problem with the little guy... other than the fact that I don't want him here. But I can't just give him away to some strange person. Or even someone I know. It's just not fair. He's the sweetest dog in the world, if you can look past his irrepressible hyperactivity. And he deserves a better deal than the one he's been given.
He's not the reason for my current state of angst, mind you. He's merely a player in the wildly unimaginitive stage show that is my life. (It's not a Busby Berkely musical or anything like that. Maybe an Arthur Miller. Or Goethe might be more accurate. There's something almost Faustian about this whole thing. But Faust, if it were written by Joe Eszterhas apparently.)
This post really had no point.
A friend recently pointed out that I seem to have all the answers for everybody else, but I can't answer the same questions when I ask them of myself.
And to that person, I say... you're right. I know it's easy to find the fault in others. And it's just as easy to quickly examine other's situations and offer pointed cogent criticism. But when the time comes to examine my own life, the answers are curiously absent.
It's obvious I need to rethink a few things. This is beginning to get a tad bothersome. Not that I don't like to sleep for a whole day every now and again. But I like it to be of my own volition. Not because I just can't force myself to face an issue that desperately needs my attention.
No, this thirty hour binge of chain smoking and sleep that borders on comatose was brought on by my arch enemy: Life.
I just fucking hate that guy.
I'm not really going to get into the specifics of my situation, other than to say this is not the first time I've done something like this.
I don't deal with stress very well. It's not wired into my brain to react correctly to fucked up situations. I adhere to a strict policy of hiding from my problems and eventually, they'll just go away.
And that approach has delivered time after time, with consistent results.
I've grown resentful of Floyd. And that's not right. It's not fair to him anymore. It's not his fault his owner is a dirtbag who has no intentions of ever coming back for him.
And I have no real problem with the little guy... other than the fact that I don't want him here. But I can't just give him away to some strange person. Or even someone I know. It's just not fair. He's the sweetest dog in the world, if you can look past his irrepressible hyperactivity. And he deserves a better deal than the one he's been given.
He's not the reason for my current state of angst, mind you. He's merely a player in the wildly unimaginitive stage show that is my life. (It's not a Busby Berkely musical or anything like that. Maybe an Arthur Miller. Or Goethe might be more accurate. There's something almost Faustian about this whole thing. But Faust, if it were written by Joe Eszterhas apparently.)
This post really had no point.
A friend recently pointed out that I seem to have all the answers for everybody else, but I can't answer the same questions when I ask them of myself.
And to that person, I say... you're right. I know it's easy to find the fault in others. And it's just as easy to quickly examine other's situations and offer pointed cogent criticism. But when the time comes to examine my own life, the answers are curiously absent.
It's obvious I need to rethink a few things. This is beginning to get a tad bothersome. Not that I don't like to sleep for a whole day every now and again. But I like it to be of my own volition. Not because I just can't force myself to face an issue that desperately needs my attention.
Friday, August 1, 2008
You better be talking about corned beef, buddy.
So, yesterday at work, I had an interesting conversation with my boss. This is the man who would only consider hiring me if and when I passed a drug screening. And I did, because I have been (officially) clean for six months now.
Well, my boss (who shall remain nameless) offerred me an intriguing proposition. He asked me, straight up, if I wanted to buy some hash.
That's... not really helping in my recovery.
The life of a reformed addict is filled with many twists and turns, I suppose.
Well, my boss (who shall remain nameless) offerred me an intriguing proposition. He asked me, straight up, if I wanted to buy some hash.
That's... not really helping in my recovery.
The life of a reformed addict is filled with many twists and turns, I suppose.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Query
How long is too long to go without speaking to someone you would refer to as a friend?
As far as I'm concerned, it's never too long. Sometimes people drift out of your life and there is no good explanation for it. But I would welcome them back in a heartbeat when they finally did decide to return.
Apparently, some people don't feel the same way.
As far as I'm concerned, it's never too long. Sometimes people drift out of your life and there is no good explanation for it. But I would welcome them back in a heartbeat when they finally did decide to return.
Apparently, some people don't feel the same way.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Curse you, Alexander Graham Bell!
Three words. That's all it takes to derail me.
"Mike's in jail."
And who would deliver this solemn and all too serious message? Well obviously, it wasn't Mike. It was Matthew. His (for all intents and purposes) stepson. Which would be cool. If he wasn't 7.
It started as an innocent call to check in on my n'er-do-well brother in Florida. He and I had a less than amicable split both personally and professionally last fall. We owned a business together, then he decided that we didn't. And I was left holding the bag, as usual.
But that's par for the course with Mike. I'm the one who gets the short end of the stick with him. He's 9 years older than me. He's damn near 40, for Christ's sake. He has a family, a house, a good job, and not one bit of common sense.
But, he's away from here. Which was his only goal when he decided to leave. Anywhere but here was the de facto destination of choice.
There's only one little thing... his pesky drug habit. Now I'm not here to throw stones at anyone. My struggle with addiction has been discussed more than few times on this blog. But my brother has elevated dissembling and enabling to a science. He somehow managed to covince me that his main rationale for leaving was so he could get clean, which was something, he said, that he could never do if he remained here. However, I know that the drugs are MUCH cheaper in Florida than they are here. Trust me.
But it was on this basis and this basis alone that I finally acquiesced and agreed to dissolve the business and we would both go on our merry ways. It was his steadfast earnestness that he was only trying to start over and get clean. And, as an addict, I understood that. In familiar surroundings, one can aasily regress to old behaviors and adversely affect the detoxification process. (I'm not a doctor, but I've watched one on TV. So this is definitely some legit knowledge I'm dropping here.)
He left last September. A lot has happened since then. To me. To him, most apparently. And to everyone.
Weeks would go by and we wouldn't speak. Months. Christmas rolled around and amazingly, I received a call. He wanted to leave me his mailing information so the family would know where to mail the presents.
Are you shitting me?
Nary* a phone call for months, and now you expect presents?!
OK. I admit, a fair amount of unnecessary information was just offloaded here. I'll try and refocus.
So I call to talk to Mike. Only he's not there, and Matt answers. And no, his mom wasn't home. Excuse me? You're 7. Where the fuck is everybody, leaving you all alone?
"Oh, well," (And here are those three little words) "Mike's in jail."
"What? For what?"
"He had a suspended license."
I won't get into my brother's criminal history here out of respect, but suffice it to say he has a history of doing very stupid things, and then thinking that he doesn't really need to go to court, because he can "...work it all out later", which is shorthand for "I'm not fucking going to court", which is all well and good, except for the fact that the criminal justice system is a stickler for their rules, and they frown upon you taking matters into your own hands. (Wow, that's quite the run-on sentence. Is there a world record for a run-on sentence? I'd like to try to get in on that if there is.)
So now I'm receiving collect phone calls from the Valucia County Jail. (If I'm spelling that incorrectly, I really don't care. I'm sure they'll spell it right on the phone bill.)
Oh. I see. Now you want to talk. Well, I'd love to talk to you, but the kind old gentleman who recorded that message has just informed me that this collect call will cost $5.84 for the first minute, and $.89 for each additional minute. Great.
So, like the idiot that I am, I talk to him. For about four minutes and 37 seconds. I'm only estimating there, my watch doesn't have a second hand. So, if you prorate the 37 seconds, I owe... about $42.19. (I was always terrible at math. Is that even close?)
Want to hear something even more entertaining than the story I've just told you (Yes, it was meant to be entertaining. How could you not get that?)?
He's called 5 times. FIVE FUCKING TIMES!!!!
According to my calculations, I've talked to him for $29.20 worth of first minutes alone! Adding in the additional minutes, that puts the bill up to right around $675.46.
(That just seems wrong. Man I really suck at math.)
Why don't I just stop answering the phone, is what my sisters have been telling me.
You know, the thought never occurred to me.
Sigh.
Let me put it this way: If I was in prison, I would certainly like my family to answer my phone calls. Unless I did something really heinous, like murder a hobo who was murdering another hobo who was murdering an elderly gentleman who was murdering his wife who was talking to her friend Dolores on the phone about how awful the neighbor's new landscaping job looks. If I did that, then I could understand my family's resistance to my calls.
And yes, I know Michael used up all of his "Get Out Of Jail Free" cards (delicious pun fully intended) a long time ago. But I love him. The only decent and proper thing to do is to answer his calls, talk to him, because he's probably going crazy in there, and then tell him no, he can't have any money. He'll just have sit there until his court date comes, on August 4th.
And I feel even worse, because his birthday is July 30 (Or is it the 31st? Doesn't much matter right now, does it?). He's gonna be in jail on his birthday. Now that just sucks. But I think I finally now know what I can get him for a gift:
A fucking phone card.
Good luck, Mikey. Hoard those cigarettes, remember to hang on to the soap, and watch your cornhole buddy.
* Yes, I really do talk like this. It's not an act.
"Mike's in jail."
And who would deliver this solemn and all too serious message? Well obviously, it wasn't Mike. It was Matthew. His (for all intents and purposes) stepson. Which would be cool. If he wasn't 7.
It started as an innocent call to check in on my n'er-do-well brother in Florida. He and I had a less than amicable split both personally and professionally last fall. We owned a business together, then he decided that we didn't. And I was left holding the bag, as usual.
But that's par for the course with Mike. I'm the one who gets the short end of the stick with him. He's 9 years older than me. He's damn near 40, for Christ's sake. He has a family, a house, a good job, and not one bit of common sense.
But, he's away from here. Which was his only goal when he decided to leave. Anywhere but here was the de facto destination of choice.
There's only one little thing... his pesky drug habit. Now I'm not here to throw stones at anyone. My struggle with addiction has been discussed more than few times on this blog. But my brother has elevated dissembling and enabling to a science. He somehow managed to covince me that his main rationale for leaving was so he could get clean, which was something, he said, that he could never do if he remained here. However, I know that the drugs are MUCH cheaper in Florida than they are here. Trust me.
But it was on this basis and this basis alone that I finally acquiesced and agreed to dissolve the business and we would both go on our merry ways. It was his steadfast earnestness that he was only trying to start over and get clean. And, as an addict, I understood that. In familiar surroundings, one can aasily regress to old behaviors and adversely affect the detoxification process. (I'm not a doctor, but I've watched one on TV. So this is definitely some legit knowledge I'm dropping here.)
He left last September. A lot has happened since then. To me. To him, most apparently. And to everyone.
Weeks would go by and we wouldn't speak. Months. Christmas rolled around and amazingly, I received a call. He wanted to leave me his mailing information so the family would know where to mail the presents.
Are you shitting me?
Nary* a phone call for months, and now you expect presents?!
OK. I admit, a fair amount of unnecessary information was just offloaded here. I'll try and refocus.
So I call to talk to Mike. Only he's not there, and Matt answers. And no, his mom wasn't home. Excuse me? You're 7. Where the fuck is everybody, leaving you all alone?
"Oh, well," (And here are those three little words) "Mike's in jail."
"What? For what?"
"He had a suspended license."
I won't get into my brother's criminal history here out of respect, but suffice it to say he has a history of doing very stupid things, and then thinking that he doesn't really need to go to court, because he can "...work it all out later", which is shorthand for "I'm not fucking going to court", which is all well and good, except for the fact that the criminal justice system is a stickler for their rules, and they frown upon you taking matters into your own hands. (Wow, that's quite the run-on sentence. Is there a world record for a run-on sentence? I'd like to try to get in on that if there is.)
So now I'm receiving collect phone calls from the Valucia County Jail. (If I'm spelling that incorrectly, I really don't care. I'm sure they'll spell it right on the phone bill.)
Oh. I see. Now you want to talk. Well, I'd love to talk to you, but the kind old gentleman who recorded that message has just informed me that this collect call will cost $5.84 for the first minute, and $.89 for each additional minute. Great.
So, like the idiot that I am, I talk to him. For about four minutes and 37 seconds. I'm only estimating there, my watch doesn't have a second hand. So, if you prorate the 37 seconds, I owe... about $42.19. (I was always terrible at math. Is that even close?)
Want to hear something even more entertaining than the story I've just told you (Yes, it was meant to be entertaining. How could you not get that?)?
He's called 5 times. FIVE FUCKING TIMES!!!!
According to my calculations, I've talked to him for $29.20 worth of first minutes alone! Adding in the additional minutes, that puts the bill up to right around $675.46.
(That just seems wrong. Man I really suck at math.)
Why don't I just stop answering the phone, is what my sisters have been telling me.
You know, the thought never occurred to me.
Sigh.
Let me put it this way: If I was in prison, I would certainly like my family to answer my phone calls. Unless I did something really heinous, like murder a hobo who was murdering another hobo who was murdering an elderly gentleman who was murdering his wife who was talking to her friend Dolores on the phone about how awful the neighbor's new landscaping job looks. If I did that, then I could understand my family's resistance to my calls.
And yes, I know Michael used up all of his "Get Out Of Jail Free" cards (delicious pun fully intended) a long time ago. But I love him. The only decent and proper thing to do is to answer his calls, talk to him, because he's probably going crazy in there, and then tell him no, he can't have any money. He'll just have sit there until his court date comes, on August 4th.
And I feel even worse, because his birthday is July 30 (Or is it the 31st? Doesn't much matter right now, does it?). He's gonna be in jail on his birthday. Now that just sucks. But I think I finally now know what I can get him for a gift:
A fucking phone card.
Good luck, Mikey. Hoard those cigarettes, remember to hang on to the soap, and watch your cornhole buddy.
* Yes, I really do talk like this. It's not an act.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
OMG! I have a blog?
Well, sort of.
I promise to be a better blogger.
ByFriday the weekend I'll have a post up.
And a good one too.
Not one of these, "Oh, I've been away,
I better throw a post up to appease the masses."
kind of posts.
A real one.
With jokes.
And poignancy.
And philosophy.
And maybe even a little foul language.
Who the fuck knows?
I promise to be a better blogger.
By
And a good one too.
Not one of these, "Oh, I've been away,
I better throw a post up to appease the masses."
kind of posts.
A real one.
With jokes.
And poignancy.
And philosophy.
And maybe even a little foul language.
Who the fuck knows?
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Another minion is on the way!
Big week here in Adam-land. My twin sister, Amanda, is due to "give birth" this week by Thursday at the latest. I say "give birth" because she's probably going to be induced. This kid just does not want to leave the friendly confines of her womb.
I can't really blame him. Stay as long as you want, fella.
This makes six legitimate nieces and nephews under my control. I am psyched. The oldest ones are nearing the time where I will begin their training. Training for what? World domination. Duh.
I just hope young Gabriel is ready. Yes, Gabriel. For my part, I did my best to dissuade them from naming him that. It was originally going to be Charles, but they didn't like the looks that people gave them when they told them. I tried to get them to name him Adam. When that didn't work, I gave them the name I was going to use for my first born son. Seeing as how I am nearing 30 and have no actual prospects of ever having a baby of my own, I decided to give it to them. "Please," I said. "Name your son Archibald. It's yours."
Can you believe they laughed in my face. Archibald is too fruity, they said.
Good luck, Gabriel.
Yeah, I'd react that way if my parents named me that, too. Sorry pal.
I can't really blame him. Stay as long as you want, fella.
This makes six legitimate nieces and nephews under my control. I am psyched. The oldest ones are nearing the time where I will begin their training. Training for what? World domination. Duh.
I just hope young Gabriel is ready. Yes, Gabriel. For my part, I did my best to dissuade them from naming him that. It was originally going to be Charles, but they didn't like the looks that people gave them when they told them. I tried to get them to name him Adam. When that didn't work, I gave them the name I was going to use for my first born son. Seeing as how I am nearing 30 and have no actual prospects of ever having a baby of my own, I decided to give it to them. "Please," I said. "Name your son Archibald. It's yours."
Can you believe they laughed in my face. Archibald is too fruity, they said.
Good luck, Gabriel.
Yeah, I'd react that way if my parents named me that, too. Sorry pal.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Quietly sneaking back into the room...
I was strolling through the park one day, and it turns out, I missed the entire month of May. I did however avoid being taken by surprise by a pair of roguish eyes...
So I got that going for me. Which is nice.
Just decided to pop in and say hello. Hello. I do have a few things to say, but nothing of any importance. First, when and if you are ever unemployed, please, for the love of all things holy, please do not take the first job offered to you. Especially if said job is in a business you have no prior knowledge of (Yes, I'm ending a sentence with a preposition. What are you gonna do about it?). I have spent the better part of three decades avoiding fixing cars and learning about how they run... And now my chickens are coming home to roost. (That makes no sense. Wouldn't roosters come home to roost? Shouldn't chickens come home to... I don't know, chick?) Anyway, just take this tip from me. If you haven't already, choose a profession that you know a little something about. Otherwise you'll end up working 50 plus hours a week in order to more familiarize yourself with your inventory. Boy, am I glad I went to school for radio broadcasting.
Second, I have started smoking again. It was just too much. I was going insane with the job. And I needed something to make my head stop from spinning, and I couldn't get my hands on any black tar, so I sparked up a tobacco doobie. I'm simultaneously disappointed in myself and proud that I was able to go that long without them. Sure, it was only two months. But it was the longest two months of my life. Be glad I chose tobacco and not the alternatives. I am.
And finally, a big FUCK YOU to my "favorite band": Coldplay.Where the fuck do you get off? I mean seriously? Where do you get off? You may be wondering where the hell I'm going with this. Well, you stay the fuck out of this. This is between me and their pussy of a front man... Chris Martin. I am so pissed at what you've done to me. How could you possibly force me to actually enjoy your new song? You're a fucking monster.
Can I get some rock now to make me feel better?
Thank you.
It feels good to be blogging again. It may be a few weeks before Iremember how to string together more than 3 sentences to form something other than this incoherent drivel get back into a groove. But I'm back. For good.
Are you as disappointed about that as I am?
So I got that going for me. Which is nice.
Just decided to pop in and say hello. Hello. I do have a few things to say, but nothing of any importance. First, when and if you are ever unemployed, please, for the love of all things holy, please do not take the first job offered to you. Especially if said job is in a business you have no prior knowledge of (Yes, I'm ending a sentence with a preposition. What are you gonna do about it?). I have spent the better part of three decades avoiding fixing cars and learning about how they run... And now my chickens are coming home to roost. (That makes no sense. Wouldn't roosters come home to roost? Shouldn't chickens come home to... I don't know, chick?) Anyway, just take this tip from me. If you haven't already, choose a profession that you know a little something about. Otherwise you'll end up working 50 plus hours a week in order to more familiarize yourself with your inventory. Boy, am I glad I went to school for radio broadcasting.
Second, I have started smoking again. It was just too much. I was going insane with the job. And I needed something to make my head stop from spinning, and I couldn't get my hands on any black tar, so I sparked up a tobacco doobie. I'm simultaneously disappointed in myself and proud that I was able to go that long without them. Sure, it was only two months. But it was the longest two months of my life. Be glad I chose tobacco and not the alternatives. I am.
And finally, a big FUCK YOU to my "favorite band": Coldplay.Where the fuck do you get off? I mean seriously? Where do you get off? You may be wondering where the hell I'm going with this. Well, you stay the fuck out of this. This is between me and their pussy of a front man... Chris Martin. I am so pissed at what you've done to me. How could you possibly force me to actually enjoy your new song? You're a fucking monster.
Can I get some rock now to make me feel better?
Thank you.
It feels good to be blogging again. It may be a few weeks before I
Are you as disappointed about that as I am?
Monday, May 26, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
You take the good with the bad, I suppose.
I don't want to write this. I want to go to bed. I want to lie down and never wake up again. I want to be as insignificant as I used to be. I want to be alone and depressed... that is when I'm truly happy, ironically enough. I am already tired of being a peon.. on the bottom rung again.
I busted my ass for 7 years to get a little respect, and my dirt bag junkie brother goes and throws it down the toilet. He moved to Florida to "get clean". Yeah. Interestingly, Florida is one of the easiest states to smuggle drugs into. But he's getting clean (He said in his most sarcastic tone).
Meanwhile, I'm stuck here truly getting myself clean, and hating every minute of it. I want to get high. I want it now. Don't care how. I'll fucking do whippits at this point. Anything to get normal again. I've been so addled with drugs for the last 12 years, I forgot what regular people's "normal" is.
And you know what? Other people's normal sucks. I like the person that I was. I was funny. I was interesting. I was the life of the party. What am I now? Pathetic, is the first word that comes to mind.
I just want to achieve some semblance of normalcy (my normal, not yours). And right now, I am as far away from normal as I can get. I'm milquetoast. I'm the same as everybody else. I'm nobody. I'm just a guy. Someone easily dismissed and just as easily forgotten in a matter of seconds.
I need to do some thinking. Sorry to lay this on you, blogosphere. I needed to say it somewhere other than inside my head.
{exasperated sigh}
I wish I could just crawl into bed and die already.
I've been fucking up...
Big time.
And there's no one else to blame this time.
The fucking onus is on me.
I've been fucking up...
Big time.
And there's no one else to blame this time.
The fucking onus is on me.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Happy Mother's Day!
For all you moms out there, I dedicate this... to you.
Those of you with teenagers totally get this. All of you with toddlers- well, you'll figure it out.
Those of you with teenagers totally get this. All of you with toddlers- well, you'll figure it out.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
See, it was a muti post day! By the way, bad news...
It is not midnight yet. This is technically a multi post day. I'm not a total liar. Truth is, I'm not really sure what to say. There's a lot happening. I think... I need a few weeks away. I need to reprogram. Stop thinking about it and just stay away from the Internet.
But I will be back. Probably with an overhaul of the site. I've had a few ideas as to the direction of this blog, which was heretofore rudderless and drifting aimlessly in a sea of mildly amusing anecdotes.
Some time will allow me to gather myself and ultimately allow me to achieve my real goal for this blog. That being, Unquestioned Lord and Ruler to all the World.
Needless to say, that plan is in its formative stages, and may be even years away from coming to fruition.
I hope you don't abandon me while I take my respite and revive myself from the creative coma I have been wasting away in recently. I couldn't blame you if you did. And if you do, OK then.
But if you hang around, who knows? You may get to bear witness to my bloody rise to the top of the planet's power structure. I could use some murderous emissaries, if any one's looking for some quick cash. Must be a motivated self starter who is proficient in Word, Excel, Photoshop, and have a highly attuned knowledge of the Black Arts.
Anyway, I will see you all in a few weeks. The site may disappear for a day or two when I decide to return and relaunch later this month. The address will not change. No need to worry about that (I know you were. Admit it.).
Oh, and to answer a few questions raised in the comments section 1) Dawn, the race tickets aren't free. We just have access to good seats. Give me $300 and you can have the tickets. And 2) Sra, re: my voodoo magic with the blogroll. Well, I suppose I can share my secret. For you see, unlike others who erroneously claim to have done it, I actually did invent the Internet. I can manipulate it anyway I see fit, using only the power of my mind. Telekinesis is the new black.
What?
You don't believe me? Okay, would you believe it if I told you...Oh, I don't know... that it's only available on the new Blogger Draft version. So all of you schmoes using something else can just SUCK IT! Teach you to leave Blogger. I mean, it's fucking Google! All hail King Goo-gol.
(This is how I will take over the world; using Google's massive popularity to its own detriment. I will ingratiate myself into its inner circle and...
I fear I've said too much already. )
I'll see you... in the future.
But I will be back. Probably with an overhaul of the site. I've had a few ideas as to the direction of this blog, which was heretofore rudderless and drifting aimlessly in a sea of mildly amusing anecdotes.
Some time will allow me to gather myself and ultimately allow me to achieve my real goal for this blog. That being, Unquestioned Lord and Ruler to all the World.
Needless to say, that plan is in its formative stages, and may be even years away from coming to fruition.
I hope you don't abandon me while I take my respite and revive myself from the creative coma I have been wasting away in recently. I couldn't blame you if you did. And if you do, OK then.
But if you hang around, who knows? You may get to bear witness to my bloody rise to the top of the planet's power structure. I could use some murderous emissaries, if any one's looking for some quick cash. Must be a motivated self starter who is proficient in Word, Excel, Photoshop, and have a highly attuned knowledge of the Black Arts.
Anyway, I will see you all in a few weeks. The site may disappear for a day or two when I decide to return and relaunch later this month. The address will not change. No need to worry about that (I know you were. Admit it.).
Oh, and to answer a few questions raised in the comments section 1) Dawn, the race tickets aren't free. We just have access to good seats. Give me $300 and you can have the tickets. And 2) Sra, re: my voodoo magic with the blogroll. Well, I suppose I can share my secret. For you see, unlike others who erroneously claim to have done it, I actually did invent the Internet. I can manipulate it anyway I see fit, using only the power of my mind. Telekinesis is the new black.
What?
You don't believe me? Okay, would you believe it if I told you...Oh, I don't know... that it's only available on the new Blogger Draft version. So all of you schmoes using something else can just SUCK IT! Teach you to leave Blogger. I mean, it's fucking Google! All hail King Goo-gol.
(This is how I will take over the world; using Google's massive popularity to its own detriment. I will ingratiate myself into its inner circle and...
I fear I've said too much already. )
I'll see you... in the future.
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