My existence has become mundane and I wish I could escape it but I seemingly cannot.
Today is a routine day almost with a few exceptions. I forgot to set the alarm but it had been set from before. I forgot to give myself ample wake up time so the xanax hangover I had would have 20 minutes to burn before I had to suffer through a shower and have enough time to absorb my muddy coffee. And that’s where the exceptions end. Oh great, the Faces are on my ipod.
I got to work and thought “Fuck, again? Already?” This is my office job, my desk job, my supposed real job. I spent the morning looking at web sites, downing coffee and feeling generally asleep in an otherwise wide awake world. I may have set a meeting or two, had a couple meaningful conversations with a couple of friends but otherwise, it’s a typical meandering Friday where I’ve done next to nothing and been paid handsomely for it. That’s the good news. The Lemonheads just came on my ipod.
Same shit, different day. Bosses wife forgot to pay the car lease. So the bank calls me and I have to call back pretending to be him threatening to beat my wife for not paying my bill. They then will fax me the car lease so I can log-on online and set up auto-pay so his dingbat doesn’t mess this one up again. Some girl just checked me out from afar. She was pretty far away but up close her skin looks like wet pavement. It’s how it usually goes. Oh boy, Hole. Courtney Love is the Yoko of this generation.
Most days I’m ok with being here. Not today. Today I just don’t feel like phoning it in. I normally phone it in, which appears to be working really hard to most people. To me, it’s a phony existence. I’m a shell. I pretend to say good morning to the people who say it first. I say fuck off to the people who say good morning to me just to antagonize me. “Good morning, how do you know that?” I will say and they laugh thinking I’m witty. But I’m really not. I mean it. Fucking Frankie Valli. I know I put this on to be ironic but it’s on and I have to keep listening. December. 1963.
The girl I want to sleep with is crying. I don’t know why. I will sleep with her eventually, if she ever stops wearing so much perfume. She has that babyish, innocent outer shell. The kind that sleeping with men like me ruins. Maybe I’m meant to ruin that luster, that glow that girls have before they’ve been introduced to enough penises to make them hate yet need one at all times. Beastie Boys, Check Your Head remixed. Favorite song.
Lunch was a bowl of soup. The kitchen lady makes a great vegetable soup that made our chairman drop a ton of weight. I should do that too. I won’t be satisfied or happy until I’m thin. I’m broken otherwise. At least in my head. I was still hungry after the bowl of soup, doused with Tapatio sauce to give it flavor and heat. So one of my colleagues and I decided to split a sandwich from the good place across the street. Pastrami, lettuce, tomato, mustard, mayo. On a roll. Typical. Got a Man by Positive-K. Shit, I miss the fucking 90’s.
I signed the credit card slip “Mr. Fuji” since my asian colleague laughs at all of the cultural references we make in regards to his slanty eyes. Using his credit card was a catalyst of sorts because it was about when I got up to put my colleague’s credit card in my wallet, I felt a discomfort underneath the stretched denim jeans that I’m wearing, above the left side of my ass. I reached and it felt tender, in a memorable way. In a gross way. Clearly, my absorption of the occasional Diet Pepsi has brought a problematic zit upon my ass. Drift away by Doby Gray. Quality.
Problematic for a multitude of reasons. Whenever I have a cough, a cut, an itch, anything out of the ordinary, I will deem it a “pet.” Because my apartment doesn’t allow dogs or cats, having a zit on my ass is as close as caring for something that needs me more than I need it. It will be loyal, sticking there to the absolute end and it will remind me that its there. Like a pet. Who invited Earth Wind and Fire into this shit?
Granted this is a self-inflicted annoyance, like a cat, but it’s also a labor of love, like a dog. However the labor of love is my desire to drink brown fizzy water that has chemicals in it known to cause cancer in rats. There goes that fucking love analogy. Sophie B Hawkins As I Lay Me Down. She once said she named her album tongues and tails because she wished she had a tail that could touch her tongue. My kinda gal.
The worst part about having this zit on my ass is I cannot do anything about it unless I literally get up and go the bathroom and handle it. But I can’t leave my sloth. I cannot get up and go. That would take effort and beyond. Milkshake, Kelis. Rock the fuck on.
So I’m here, listening to these stupid songs recognizing the idiocy that is involved in popping that zit. I will feel better for popping it. It just requires minimal effort. Minimal struggle. Like today, just minimal, but I don’t even want to do that. I just want to sit here. Wallowing. Wasting. Festering. Eventually, that zit will either pop on it’s own or go away. God I love the way it feels to pop a zit. I love how satisfying it is after it’s done. And then there’s nothing. Nothing left. It’s all gone. Quick clean-up and goodbye. Sort of like quitting a job. Smooth Criminal.
A self-inflicted annoyance. Problematic for a multitude of reasons. In a gross way. At least in my head. I don’t know why I’m a shell. It’s how it usually goes, that’s the good news. Today is a routine day, almost with a few exceptions. - my existence has become mundane and I wish I could escape it but I seemingly cannot. Set Adrift on Memory Bliss.
If only I could get that zit.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
when douchebags attack
i was driving down Vine on Sunset on my way to buy some gay products at Bed Bath and Beyond when I heard a thud followed by a car spinning out, ramming into a pole and against a hydrant.
In the ensuing moments, I saw that this Audi had clipped a pedestrian while speeding through to make a turn and because he was driving so hard, hit the brakes so hard that it spun his car out and he wrecked the left side of his car. There is no way that car isn't a total loss.
The second strange thing I noticed as I was pulling over because I can't not look was that a cop was stopped at the light perpendicular to where said driver was coming from, and this cop not only saw the whole thing but instantly hit his lights and blocked off half of the street in an instant swift motion. It was almost cinematic, like how a child would imagine a car accident might happen, with the police there instantaneously.
Once the driver and his passenger got out of his car, we got a solid look at him. This kid was a douchebag. Clearly young, clearly stupid with big sunglasses and a stupid semi-sideways hat on and a young dumb looking girlfriend consoling him. It seemingly must have been the first serious moment of this young kid's life, realizing he'd fucked up his (dad's) car, someone else's life and the paramedics came minutes later and toted this poor hurt guy away while the asshole driver was standing there, dumbfounded.
It was one of those moments where so much was going on but nothing was going on. The kid just stood there, dumbfounded as his dumb girlfriend hugged him repeatedly. At that moment it was as if he realized what his life might be; a meaningless accident to most but this will probably haunt him for a long time. A thoughtless act, a stupid need to make it through the damn red light and a moment most that saw it probably won't forget.
It was one of those depressing moments when you realize an asshole like that can actually effect your life. Needless to say people, don't speed through red lights. And walk when the little white man in all of his white power, tells you to walk. Never when he says don't walk, because thats when things like this happen.
I'm definitely reluctant to be the party host tonight. It was a really serious kinda day.
In the ensuing moments, I saw that this Audi had clipped a pedestrian while speeding through to make a turn and because he was driving so hard, hit the brakes so hard that it spun his car out and he wrecked the left side of his car. There is no way that car isn't a total loss.
The second strange thing I noticed as I was pulling over because I can't not look was that a cop was stopped at the light perpendicular to where said driver was coming from, and this cop not only saw the whole thing but instantly hit his lights and blocked off half of the street in an instant swift motion. It was almost cinematic, like how a child would imagine a car accident might happen, with the police there instantaneously.
Once the driver and his passenger got out of his car, we got a solid look at him. This kid was a douchebag. Clearly young, clearly stupid with big sunglasses and a stupid semi-sideways hat on and a young dumb looking girlfriend consoling him. It seemingly must have been the first serious moment of this young kid's life, realizing he'd fucked up his (dad's) car, someone else's life and the paramedics came minutes later and toted this poor hurt guy away while the asshole driver was standing there, dumbfounded.
It was one of those moments where so much was going on but nothing was going on. The kid just stood there, dumbfounded as his dumb girlfriend hugged him repeatedly. At that moment it was as if he realized what his life might be; a meaningless accident to most but this will probably haunt him for a long time. A thoughtless act, a stupid need to make it through the damn red light and a moment most that saw it probably won't forget.
It was one of those depressing moments when you realize an asshole like that can actually effect your life. Needless to say people, don't speed through red lights. And walk when the little white man in all of his white power, tells you to walk. Never when he says don't walk, because thats when things like this happen.
I'm definitely reluctant to be the party host tonight. It was a really serious kinda day.
Friday, October 9, 2009
It's a boy
pardon me as i'm sotally tober, just exhausted.
I went from hosting a table at a party to a red-eye back home where i was picked up by my pregnant yet slimmer sister, who took me in the rental car to get our mother and then immediately to an ultrasound so we could find out if my sister is having a boy or a girl.
the ultrasound is a long boring process but it was amazing to see the baby kick, its ten fingers, ten toes, and...then it was hard to see anything else. I was tired, i was pissed. I just really wanted to know.
My sister went into the bathroom and rested, hoping the kiddo would move but something inside me akin to a possessed animal took over.
"I am your uncle and you will worship me and do as I tell you and I need to see what you are so I will give you the biggest brio train set i can find if you show me."
I grabbed my crackberry and then posted that the ultrasound results were inconclusive and I was not going to know right now.
Ahem. If there's one thing I know about the way the world works, is if you say something wont happen, it'll do the opposite. I knew that in posting what i was posting, the world would turn it on me. That happens with the force of intentionality.
skip ahead a few minutes...i emailed my friends who were excited, sister sits down and we go through the motions again. Well.....the woman dragged the funky instrument and then pointed out a very definitive image of what looked like a lil baby's johnson.
Ahem. Not only did my promise of gifts inspire the kiddo but my murphy's law REVERSAL worked as well. Going to be a boy, I'm so freaking excited and cannot wait to meet him. Despite the tiredness, today was a great day.
ok, the good part's done. Another good yet tedious thing: spent $40 extra on my jetblue flight to get extra legroom. Wow, worth it. Totally worth it. Took my medicinal cocktail and passed the hell out. Was glorious to wake up and almost be landing.
other good part -- there was a girl at the bank here who was sweet on me and i was going to take out to dinner but she kept playing dumb stupid girl games by not responding to my emails and at one point (pardon the repeat) talking to my mother about my schedule while I was in town. The way to my penis is not through my mother. Long story short, I wanted her to go away. But today came and I was going to see her for dinner and I called her and told her (second or third time) to text me her cell. So we could go get dinner. i was all set to do this. I called her to say "take my number." Welllllll....guess who never got a call?
Probably chickened out or wrote the wrong number down but after all the shenanigans, this was so expected. Another weak-assed, pathetic massachusetts dumbshit girl that I don't have to deal with and kick aside. I am very grateful for that.
Otherwise i'm stuffed fulla indian and then chinese food. xanax and norco. i need sleep but im still awake. weird
I went from hosting a table at a party to a red-eye back home where i was picked up by my pregnant yet slimmer sister, who took me in the rental car to get our mother and then immediately to an ultrasound so we could find out if my sister is having a boy or a girl.
the ultrasound is a long boring process but it was amazing to see the baby kick, its ten fingers, ten toes, and...then it was hard to see anything else. I was tired, i was pissed. I just really wanted to know.
My sister went into the bathroom and rested, hoping the kiddo would move but something inside me akin to a possessed animal took over.
"I am your uncle and you will worship me and do as I tell you and I need to see what you are so I will give you the biggest brio train set i can find if you show me."
I grabbed my crackberry and then posted that the ultrasound results were inconclusive and I was not going to know right now.
Ahem. If there's one thing I know about the way the world works, is if you say something wont happen, it'll do the opposite. I knew that in posting what i was posting, the world would turn it on me. That happens with the force of intentionality.
skip ahead a few minutes...i emailed my friends who were excited, sister sits down and we go through the motions again. Well.....the woman dragged the funky instrument and then pointed out a very definitive image of what looked like a lil baby's johnson.
Ahem. Not only did my promise of gifts inspire the kiddo but my murphy's law REVERSAL worked as well. Going to be a boy, I'm so freaking excited and cannot wait to meet him. Despite the tiredness, today was a great day.
ok, the good part's done. Another good yet tedious thing: spent $40 extra on my jetblue flight to get extra legroom. Wow, worth it. Totally worth it. Took my medicinal cocktail and passed the hell out. Was glorious to wake up and almost be landing.
other good part -- there was a girl at the bank here who was sweet on me and i was going to take out to dinner but she kept playing dumb stupid girl games by not responding to my emails and at one point (pardon the repeat) talking to my mother about my schedule while I was in town. The way to my penis is not through my mother. Long story short, I wanted her to go away. But today came and I was going to see her for dinner and I called her and told her (second or third time) to text me her cell. So we could go get dinner. i was all set to do this. I called her to say "take my number." Welllllll....guess who never got a call?
Probably chickened out or wrote the wrong number down but after all the shenanigans, this was so expected. Another weak-assed, pathetic massachusetts dumbshit girl that I don't have to deal with and kick aside. I am very grateful for that.
Otherwise i'm stuffed fulla indian and then chinese food. xanax and norco. i need sleep but im still awake. weird
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Kickball? No thanks
I have a story to share…about life being too fucking short and how sometimes,
you spend money and learn a lesson, instead of getting your moneys worth.
I signed up for kickball because I thought it might be fun. $70 for the season, might be nice to meet new people, right? So I get these poorly organized emails about shit..not understanding whats up. I try to go on the website to understand it but it's nothing but crazy charts about games and shit -- NO REAL organization.
I finally get a real email and find out that there was some rules clinic. I was like "OK, I'll move my plans and go to this fucking rules clinic...." and then I get an email. "How'd you like to go to the Dodgers game? Second row behind home plate?"
My manties became soaking wet and instead of learning kickball rules, I ate prime rib and shrimp and all-you-could-eat everything. It was pretty bitching. After all, I didn't sign up for kickball to care about rules. It's fucking kickball
So whatever, I missed the rules clinic and decided I'd go to the first practice. Why not? Lets see if I'm any good still. Well, within five minutes, I totally ate it and fucked up my knee, badly. Bleeding and stripped of all skin badly. No bueno.
I didn't kick well but I did have two key plays; at one point, this girl was running to first base where I was and I reached to catch the ball and she ran RIGHT into me. I did not at all feel the hit but she was barely gasping for air -- I guess I am still a tough SOB made of steel.
After she caught her breath, the next player kicked a pop up directly to me, at which time, I realized the ginge that had ran into me was off-base, and I tossed the ball at her softly to get an un-assisted double-play. Thats right fuckasses, I rule.
I started realizing that the people were were playing with, in a meaningless scrimmage, were getting hostile about the rules. One of these guys was an Indian kid who kept yelling over me as I was trying to coach third base. Dude, I was just trying...making an attempt. And here's this asshole yelling over me to other baserunners. I didn't realize that kickball was going to be something that losers with no lives played. I thought even practicing might be fun?
But much like at every bar in America, somebody needs to pretend to be a big man by puffing themselves up like they're important.
I was talking to one of the players on the way out who wanted to make it clear to me that there are other people on other teams who are bullies and get very aggressive and sometimes that aggression spills off-field.
Um, what? Motherfuckers, this is KICKBALL. This is a schoolyard sport, this isn't something you should want to kill a bitch over.
It's like they have no control over their lives and decided that kickball was where they were going to take out their aggression.
I got sick a couple days later (as I previously wrote, colds suck.) As I was going to take care of my knee, I started getting emails. From the kickball league. From other players. About stupid shit like manditory (?) refereeing of games and drinking after the game and who is bringing equipment and what the rules are and everyone was replying-all to all of the emails and I'm like, this sucks.
I made an email folder about kickball and set a filter to move every kickball email into the kickball folder.
I already am pretty pissed off. And I was getting better and going to go for a game and it was a Wednesday night and I was having a bad day and started thinking to myself "why am I fucking dealing with this shit?" so I called my sister and was like “Tell me I’m not insane…I’m getting ass-raped with emails about rules, the other players are hyperaggressive douches AND I might get in fights over kickball?”
I spent $70
And within 5 minutes, got hurt
Within an hour, felt mistreated during a scrimmage
Within two hours, was told people were really aggressive and might get in fights over play.
IS IT WORTH $70 to never have to fucking do this again?
I felt 100% better once I made the decision to quit.
I haven’t looked back.
Relief from stress is worth $70. I promise you that.
Even if its the stress of getting away from something you thought you would enjoy.
Your little nugget to chew on today.
you spend money and learn a lesson, instead of getting your moneys worth.
I signed up for kickball because I thought it might be fun. $70 for the season, might be nice to meet new people, right? So I get these poorly organized emails about shit..not understanding whats up. I try to go on the website to understand it but it's nothing but crazy charts about games and shit -- NO REAL organization.
I finally get a real email and find out that there was some rules clinic. I was like "OK, I'll move my plans and go to this fucking rules clinic...." and then I get an email. "How'd you like to go to the Dodgers game? Second row behind home plate?"
My manties became soaking wet and instead of learning kickball rules, I ate prime rib and shrimp and all-you-could-eat everything. It was pretty bitching. After all, I didn't sign up for kickball to care about rules. It's fucking kickball
So whatever, I missed the rules clinic and decided I'd go to the first practice. Why not? Lets see if I'm any good still. Well, within five minutes, I totally ate it and fucked up my knee, badly. Bleeding and stripped of all skin badly. No bueno.
I didn't kick well but I did have two key plays; at one point, this girl was running to first base where I was and I reached to catch the ball and she ran RIGHT into me. I did not at all feel the hit but she was barely gasping for air -- I guess I am still a tough SOB made of steel.
After she caught her breath, the next player kicked a pop up directly to me, at which time, I realized the ginge that had ran into me was off-base, and I tossed the ball at her softly to get an un-assisted double-play. Thats right fuckasses, I rule.
I started realizing that the people were were playing with, in a meaningless scrimmage, were getting hostile about the rules. One of these guys was an Indian kid who kept yelling over me as I was trying to coach third base. Dude, I was just trying...making an attempt. And here's this asshole yelling over me to other baserunners. I didn't realize that kickball was going to be something that losers with no lives played. I thought even practicing might be fun?
But much like at every bar in America, somebody needs to pretend to be a big man by puffing themselves up like they're important.
I was talking to one of the players on the way out who wanted to make it clear to me that there are other people on other teams who are bullies and get very aggressive and sometimes that aggression spills off-field.
Um, what? Motherfuckers, this is KICKBALL. This is a schoolyard sport, this isn't something you should want to kill a bitch over.
It's like they have no control over their lives and decided that kickball was where they were going to take out their aggression.
I got sick a couple days later (as I previously wrote, colds suck.) As I was going to take care of my knee, I started getting emails. From the kickball league. From other players. About stupid shit like manditory (?) refereeing of games and drinking after the game and who is bringing equipment and what the rules are and everyone was replying-all to all of the emails and I'm like, this sucks.
I made an email folder about kickball and set a filter to move every kickball email into the kickball folder.
I already am pretty pissed off. And I was getting better and going to go for a game and it was a Wednesday night and I was having a bad day and started thinking to myself "why am I fucking dealing with this shit?" so I called my sister and was like “Tell me I’m not insane…I’m getting ass-raped with emails about rules, the other players are hyperaggressive douches AND I might get in fights over kickball?”
I spent $70
And within 5 minutes, got hurt
Within an hour, felt mistreated during a scrimmage
Within two hours, was told people were really aggressive and might get in fights over play.
IS IT WORTH $70 to never have to fucking do this again?
I felt 100% better once I made the decision to quit.
I haven’t looked back.
Relief from stress is worth $70. I promise you that.
Even if its the stress of getting away from something you thought you would enjoy.
Your little nugget to chew on today.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Don’t take away my simple pleasures
I have a lot of current sources of illegitimate rage going on, many of which I need to figure out but the absolute lowest level on the totem pole is the thought in my head right now: my simple pleasures are being eaten away.
This burst of angry energy of mine may stem from the fact that it’s so hard to connect with people anymore, but I think the root of it is that everyone is so busy being preoccupied about being preoccupied.
For example, automatic toilets piss me off. They flush before I have time to admire or be repulsed by my shit. You’re going to flush before I can even finish wiping? Really? Where’s the joy in being able to marvel at last night’s dinner? A simple example, yes. Not a general one everyone would understand.
It’s almost like TV. Yes, TV has been ruined. It used to be a joy, once I got Tivo, to be able to watch a show and fly past the commercials. As people realized what Tivo was…networks adapted. You can’t watch Top Chef without it brought to you by some commercial venture. You can’t watch the Biggest Loser without being goaded into buying some new product. And ESPN can fuck me with a Microplane zester for all of the scrolling over and over and over my precious 1980’s wrestling programs that I want to see in their videotaped glory.
Technology, as we know it, is fucking us. It’s not fucking us fast and hard or slowly with a lil Zapp and Roger in the background making us feel all special and shit. Technology is boffing us like a drunk kid on on prom night, happily taking away from us what we once held dear: our time, energy and money.
I’m not a luddite by any stretch of the imagination. I just know that there’s so much being thwarted that our intentions are getting lost. For example, what the shit is Twitter? I already have Facebook and I don’t need to see @foxyjuicy or #lolbitchez to know that this is stupiding our country. There is no future in 140 symbols or less communication. You know what Twitter has replaced?
Conversations. The joy of a conversation. People cannot open their mouths and speak without looking down at their phones. We’ve all become ADD for no good reason, NO good reason. Is business getting done faster? Are we all getting more productive? It doesn’t feel like it. It feels like everything is slowing down to a crawl where our days start earlier because we’re all accessible. And then spend all day on machines instead of talking to people. Twitter never got anyone laid. It never progressed society or made anyone have a new thought. Its just a simplistic way of twisting society into a giant pit of stupidness.
Put away the fucking blackberry and talk to someone. A stranger. Strangers aren’t bad. Most of us are strangers, you know. It doesn’t hurt yourself one bit to be friendly going into an office building or hold the door for someone outside of a café. It won’t kill you to say you’re welcome when someone says thank you. You don’t know what you’re missing in life.
This weekend’s top movie was a good example of enjoying the little things. Woody Harrelson’s character Talahassee spends the whole movie looking for a Twinkie. That’s his simple pleasure he’s dying to find. It makes life worthwhile when you remember to stop and smell the rosaries.
Your Reluctant Party Host, removing the bitch mask and signing off.
This burst of angry energy of mine may stem from the fact that it’s so hard to connect with people anymore, but I think the root of it is that everyone is so busy being preoccupied about being preoccupied.
For example, automatic toilets piss me off. They flush before I have time to admire or be repulsed by my shit. You’re going to flush before I can even finish wiping? Really? Where’s the joy in being able to marvel at last night’s dinner? A simple example, yes. Not a general one everyone would understand.
It’s almost like TV. Yes, TV has been ruined. It used to be a joy, once I got Tivo, to be able to watch a show and fly past the commercials. As people realized what Tivo was…networks adapted. You can’t watch Top Chef without it brought to you by some commercial venture. You can’t watch the Biggest Loser without being goaded into buying some new product. And ESPN can fuck me with a Microplane zester for all of the scrolling over and over and over my precious 1980’s wrestling programs that I want to see in their videotaped glory.
Technology, as we know it, is fucking us. It’s not fucking us fast and hard or slowly with a lil Zapp and Roger in the background making us feel all special and shit. Technology is boffing us like a drunk kid on on prom night, happily taking away from us what we once held dear: our time, energy and money.
I’m not a luddite by any stretch of the imagination. I just know that there’s so much being thwarted that our intentions are getting lost. For example, what the shit is Twitter? I already have Facebook and I don’t need to see @foxyjuicy or #lolbitchez to know that this is stupiding our country. There is no future in 140 symbols or less communication. You know what Twitter has replaced?
Conversations. The joy of a conversation. People cannot open their mouths and speak without looking down at their phones. We’ve all become ADD for no good reason, NO good reason. Is business getting done faster? Are we all getting more productive? It doesn’t feel like it. It feels like everything is slowing down to a crawl where our days start earlier because we’re all accessible. And then spend all day on machines instead of talking to people. Twitter never got anyone laid. It never progressed society or made anyone have a new thought. Its just a simplistic way of twisting society into a giant pit of stupidness.
Put away the fucking blackberry and talk to someone. A stranger. Strangers aren’t bad. Most of us are strangers, you know. It doesn’t hurt yourself one bit to be friendly going into an office building or hold the door for someone outside of a café. It won’t kill you to say you’re welcome when someone says thank you. You don’t know what you’re missing in life.
This weekend’s top movie was a good example of enjoying the little things. Woody Harrelson’s character Talahassee spends the whole movie looking for a Twinkie. That’s his simple pleasure he’s dying to find. It makes life worthwhile when you remember to stop and smell the rosaries.
Your Reluctant Party Host, removing the bitch mask and signing off.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Just reach for it!
Good evening chumps and lesbians,
I’m sitting here ready to watch that episode of Letterman from yesterday where he convinces us that its ok that he shagged some staffer and then nearly got blackmailed. Um dude, you got caught and nearly got in a lot of trouble. Be grateful Captain Smartypants. We always knew you were bad news but still liked you anyway.
So I just came back from dinner with my platonic wife. Yeah, that’s what she probably is cuz I cant explain it. Here I am, some guy. Nice guy, good looking guy. I make friends with nice looking people. That are secretly or publicly as sick as I am. Fuck me raw with a microplane zester.
We go to the sex store known as the Pleasure Chest, one of Los Angeles’ most exciting/better sex shops. They got everything. Penis pumps, fuck chairs, paddles with skull faces on em. Even an electricity/rape kit thing for the kinkier (read: pathetic) people to mess with each other. Wow.
I’m walking aisle to aisle and there’s a girl. She’s got to be about 5’1. And close to 400 lbs. We are talking like, mountain shaped. And she’s standing there, staring at the vibrators. And I kinda was looking at some and then moved to the bongs and then went back to the section with the dvds of classic pornos and then looking at the whips and then I went back and there’s this little mountain, staring up at the vibrators. Is that what its like for all of us? Are we all just little short fat mountain people, looking up at the vibrators, wondering what it’d be like to actually get one?
Today I got yelled at for an hour and a half. My response is to reach for the pills. Problem: I have none. Call the pharmacy because I know I phoned them in. Erm…uh…they didn’t. Checked the other pharmacy. Errm, nuh-uh girlfriend. Jesus Hairy Christopher, what does a dude gotta do to get his xanny refilled?
I was pissed at first but then I realized that it’s a crutch. And I also started analyzing my day and week. What the hell isn’t a crutch? My life’s a crutch. My job, my clothes. My pathetic attempts at self-satisfaction in the shower. It’s like I’m a giant vat of fondue sitting there, waiting for a fire to be lit under me. I’m a mountain who doesn’t want to reach for that vibrator.
I feel like that’s what it’s all about. Once I have one area with some stability (read: female companion) I suddenly lose all grasp on others.
I look forward to hearing the rest of this story David Letterman’s telling about sleeping with his staff. It makes me feel like the vibrator of life is within reach if even he is fallable.
I’m sitting here ready to watch that episode of Letterman from yesterday where he convinces us that its ok that he shagged some staffer and then nearly got blackmailed. Um dude, you got caught and nearly got in a lot of trouble. Be grateful Captain Smartypants. We always knew you were bad news but still liked you anyway.
So I just came back from dinner with my platonic wife. Yeah, that’s what she probably is cuz I cant explain it. Here I am, some guy. Nice guy, good looking guy. I make friends with nice looking people. That are secretly or publicly as sick as I am. Fuck me raw with a microplane zester.
We go to the sex store known as the Pleasure Chest, one of Los Angeles’ most exciting/better sex shops. They got everything. Penis pumps, fuck chairs, paddles with skull faces on em. Even an electricity/rape kit thing for the kinkier (read: pathetic) people to mess with each other. Wow.
I’m walking aisle to aisle and there’s a girl. She’s got to be about 5’1. And close to 400 lbs. We are talking like, mountain shaped. And she’s standing there, staring at the vibrators. And I kinda was looking at some and then moved to the bongs and then went back to the section with the dvds of classic pornos and then looking at the whips and then I went back and there’s this little mountain, staring up at the vibrators. Is that what its like for all of us? Are we all just little short fat mountain people, looking up at the vibrators, wondering what it’d be like to actually get one?
Today I got yelled at for an hour and a half. My response is to reach for the pills. Problem: I have none. Call the pharmacy because I know I phoned them in. Erm…uh…they didn’t. Checked the other pharmacy. Errm, nuh-uh girlfriend. Jesus Hairy Christopher, what does a dude gotta do to get his xanny refilled?
I was pissed at first but then I realized that it’s a crutch. And I also started analyzing my day and week. What the hell isn’t a crutch? My life’s a crutch. My job, my clothes. My pathetic attempts at self-satisfaction in the shower. It’s like I’m a giant vat of fondue sitting there, waiting for a fire to be lit under me. I’m a mountain who doesn’t want to reach for that vibrator.
I feel like that’s what it’s all about. Once I have one area with some stability (read: female companion) I suddenly lose all grasp on others.
I look forward to hearing the rest of this story David Letterman’s telling about sleeping with his staff. It makes me feel like the vibrator of life is within reach if even he is fallable.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Recurring Dreams and Lost Identities
This cold I have is like an out of town houseguest, so blissfully unaware that I want it to leave but meanwhile, helps itself out to the last serving of pie in the fridge. I hate it and want it to take a permanent vacation.
But even in my phlegm façade, I’m still behind my desk, shuffling obligatory paper and crushing others dreams every time I finish reading something mediocre. It sometimes feels like it should be karmic to say no to the labor of somebody else’s love. Sometimes it feels like one of those clichés about letting it leave if you love it. I’ve got to deal with one of those today.
I had another dream last night about my car and this time house broken into. I’m getting tired of the reoccurring dreams I’ve been having for the past year.
In July and then later in August of 2008, I had my car, and then a friends car I was borrowing, broken into. The first time, they took $4 in nickels and my clicker. The second time, they took a Bluetooth but nothing of mine. Both instances made me fearful every time I go to my car that something bad’s happened but the existential part of me concludes that none of this is meaningful and it just exists and therefore doesn’t matter one bit. My subconscious tells me otherwise.
A few weeks ago, my former intern and fave flirtation Kelsey hit me up online to tell me she had a dream that we were in a car and she was driving out of control and I was terrified but she thought it was funny. We concluded with the help of a dream dictionary that her dream was indicative of her feeling a lack of control, whereas I was a controlled, not controlling figure. As a controlled person, I was to her what a librarian ought to be to a loud patron – I was there to tell her that it wasn’t ok to behave as she was and to calm down.
While we were discussing her dream, I brought up mine and we both looked up our dreams on a dream dictionary. Hers, as above, was explained. Mine was a little different:
To dream that you car has been stolen, indicates that you are being stripped of your identity. This may relate to losing your job, a failed relationship, or some situation which has played a significant role in your identity and who you are as a person.
Now, I have lived through many failed relationships and lost a job once, that I hated but I’m looking at what it is to be myself and recognizing that part of my personality is still dying to get out. Part of the purpose of this waste of internet bandwith known as my blog is to help that part but there is another part of that. I crave creativity. I know that at my current vocation, I will get routine tastes of it but it isn’t the bohemian, anti-authoritarian, anarchistic special little society I have carved away in my head. It just isn’t, it just won’t ever be and that is sort of making part of my brain sad.
So ever week, I dream my fucking car is stolen. Or my house is broken into. Last night my bohemian weird-ass place was moved and then all of these people kept coming and going and all I wanted to do was go through my drawers and sell the excess and build what I wanted to build like some kind of fucked up episode of Clean House.
My spirit isn’t dead, it just feels like it has herpes. Something isn’t right and needs to be corrected and might never be the same again. But I can’t let the artist inside me die a miserable death because it has to be at a certain building at a certain day. I need to nurture the little voice inside and give my mental five-year old some loving.
Thanks for listening to my mental shitting.
But even in my phlegm façade, I’m still behind my desk, shuffling obligatory paper and crushing others dreams every time I finish reading something mediocre. It sometimes feels like it should be karmic to say no to the labor of somebody else’s love. Sometimes it feels like one of those clichés about letting it leave if you love it. I’ve got to deal with one of those today.
I had another dream last night about my car and this time house broken into. I’m getting tired of the reoccurring dreams I’ve been having for the past year.
In July and then later in August of 2008, I had my car, and then a friends car I was borrowing, broken into. The first time, they took $4 in nickels and my clicker. The second time, they took a Bluetooth but nothing of mine. Both instances made me fearful every time I go to my car that something bad’s happened but the existential part of me concludes that none of this is meaningful and it just exists and therefore doesn’t matter one bit. My subconscious tells me otherwise.
A few weeks ago, my former intern and fave flirtation Kelsey hit me up online to tell me she had a dream that we were in a car and she was driving out of control and I was terrified but she thought it was funny. We concluded with the help of a dream dictionary that her dream was indicative of her feeling a lack of control, whereas I was a controlled, not controlling figure. As a controlled person, I was to her what a librarian ought to be to a loud patron – I was there to tell her that it wasn’t ok to behave as she was and to calm down.
While we were discussing her dream, I brought up mine and we both looked up our dreams on a dream dictionary. Hers, as above, was explained. Mine was a little different:
To dream that you car has been stolen, indicates that you are being stripped of your identity. This may relate to losing your job, a failed relationship, or some situation which has played a significant role in your identity and who you are as a person.
Now, I have lived through many failed relationships and lost a job once, that I hated but I’m looking at what it is to be myself and recognizing that part of my personality is still dying to get out. Part of the purpose of this waste of internet bandwith known as my blog is to help that part but there is another part of that. I crave creativity. I know that at my current vocation, I will get routine tastes of it but it isn’t the bohemian, anti-authoritarian, anarchistic special little society I have carved away in my head. It just isn’t, it just won’t ever be and that is sort of making part of my brain sad.
So ever week, I dream my fucking car is stolen. Or my house is broken into. Last night my bohemian weird-ass place was moved and then all of these people kept coming and going and all I wanted to do was go through my drawers and sell the excess and build what I wanted to build like some kind of fucked up episode of Clean House.
My spirit isn’t dead, it just feels like it has herpes. Something isn’t right and needs to be corrected and might never be the same again. But I can’t let the artist inside me die a miserable death because it has to be at a certain building at a certain day. I need to nurture the little voice inside and give my mental five-year old some loving.
Thanks for listening to my mental shitting.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
At that point of the weekend where it's like the second to last bite of an ice cream cone...
Sunday night, nine pm. What the fuck.
So I've had a head cold for about a week because (I think) I drank myself retarded at the last Nine Inch Nails show about a week and a half ago. It's also mercury retrograde which, if you believe that shit, means your life will be fucked up for a lil while.
So we're here, at that dysfunctional point in the weekend where it's almost over but at the same time, there's a couple hours left where you can try to enjoy the rest of your freedom before you have to find your pillow, hit a remote and be a robot for five days. I try really hard to fight that last part.
I have to work harder on my personal goals in regards to enjoying myself more. But I also need to put the pen to the paper as I start new venture 2.5 out. So far so good, yes, it's vague. It's better than nothing tho.
So I've had a head cold for about a week because (I think) I drank myself retarded at the last Nine Inch Nails show about a week and a half ago. It's also mercury retrograde which, if you believe that shit, means your life will be fucked up for a lil while.
So we're here, at that dysfunctional point in the weekend where it's almost over but at the same time, there's a couple hours left where you can try to enjoy the rest of your freedom before you have to find your pillow, hit a remote and be a robot for five days. I try really hard to fight that last part.
I have to work harder on my personal goals in regards to enjoying myself more. But I also need to put the pen to the paper as I start new venture 2.5 out. So far so good, yes, it's vague. It's better than nothing tho.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
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