Outcome dependent

They say we get but one life to live. That we ought be happy in our days.  They are swift and soon behind us. But is not such a thought capricious? As capricious as the life before us?

I will not forget the sword at my back, or the dagger at my throat. Our very lives always so tender. So close to the edge always.

"But glad tidings! Run along now little master."  "Forget this nonsense!" They will say.

But I will not play their game.

The outcome is predetermined.

We all lose in the end.

And the end is always closer than we think.

Is that a bad thing?

Cancer didn't change my life.  I mean I get to make more cancer jokes now, and you can't make feel to guilty about those, as I am cancer ridden.  I guess it's because I know I am not going to die.  My oncologist said so.  He's like, "Romius, you are totally going to live.  This cancer gets cured all the time.  I don't even know why I'm wasting my vast talents on you.  Are you sure you even want to all this Chemotherapy?  Maybe we could just give you a little and see what happens?"

And I'm like, "Wait didn't you doctors try that shit in Alabama once?"

And he was like, "No, that was with black people."

God is lookin' out for me

People are always saying that God is looking out for me.  He might be.  He might also be looking to kill me, and just isn't doing a bang up job.  I mean if you are going to give me Cancer, why give me one that's so curable?  Or is God still working on the assumption that we are still nomads with no more idea of biological workings than "stay the fuck away from Women when they menstruate. Because, blood? Right?

Wait. Blood.  Ancient times.  Blood carries disease.  For instance Ebola. These ancient rules really might work.  I guess some genius really did write that book after all. Stock on menstruation pads and and pluggers gentlemen.  You're lady folk might be trying to kill you.

Do not.  I repeat DO NOT ATTEMPT TO HANDLE YOUR WOMAN"S BLOODY EBOLA MAN KILLING REMINDER THAT YOU DIDN'T PRODUCE ME AN HEIR TWAT STUFFER!!!!!

Cuddles,

romius t aka the cancer boy

Cancer Boy is back with a Non-Cancer Blog Post

Is that possible? No, not really. 1

This just might be today's chemotherapy talking, but in my head I've been that funny all day.

I didn't have anyone to talk to today, so I have been amusing myself.  I should record my inner monologue, because it's that dang funny.  Like seriously funny.  I am thinking CBS sitcom funny.  I could get a way too hot wife, and take her out to the movies, and take her out to the grocery store, and I would just riff on all the stuff that comes to mind, even though she gets SUPER embarrassed by me and begs me not to, I totally ignore her and she just grins and bears it and that's how you make awesome sitcoms and run on sentences.*

*See what I did there?

Clever.  And more clever is what we need in this world.  And dammit I feel like I really stepped it up today, and the only the only person who got to share in that glory is me!  But when ya think about it, that's okay.  Because very few things amuse me.  None of you dudes are very funny, or insightful, or moving me to tears.

Sure, there are the classics, I could be reading Marx.  I not saying I haven't finished Capital, but I am more of a Western styled Neo-Marxist who appreciates the Early Marx* and not the antiquated economics (of which let's face it with it's 8th grade Algebra is really out of my reach/hardly my fault as my 8th grade Algebra teacher had enormous fake boobies and wore tons of make up.)

I don't have an ending for today's post.  But you can expect me to write a bit more for a bit longer.  At least I didn't use BYTE for Bit... 

*For the nerds this does NOT mean that I agree with Althussuer's infamous epistemological break. For a more complete description of my views of Marx see my The Karl Marx Blog.

1. insert canned laughter

I got {real} bad news

The creator of this fine blog has met with bad news. I have a blood clot. Fluid in my lungs and heart. They've also found a large mass in my lungs.

This don't sound like a program for long life expectancy.

I'll try and keep you informed if any regular blog readers care.

Cuddles,
Romius T

Can someone lend me Robin Williams' belt?

The end is near.

And it's much closer than we expect. I will die alone. In poverty and pain. My last meal will be a cold bologna sandwich eaten over the sink. I will wash down 6 Tylenol with a glass of half sugared Kool-Aid.

But something will happen this time. My liver won't make the correct enzymes, or will it simply implode from overuse. I will choke and stutter. The glass will fall and shatter from my hand. The orange drink will run down the badly stained tile. My head will reverberate several times from the awful impact.

My last vision will be a cockroach running out from behind the dishwasher towards me, his eyes smiling and triumphant!

Memoirs from the short fat bald white guy who sits next to you on the bus who wants to get your attetion, but quickly averts his eyes when yours meet

If you're writing your memoirs at age 30 it should be about something. Some kind of momentous occasion. Dave (I share a given-name and the inability to create fiction with) Eggers wrote about the death of his mother. But my mother is still alive. Alive and kicking as they say. Not that I'd wish death upon her just for some convenient pathos.

Maybe I could wish death upon a lesser relative like an unknown aunt or uncle. They could die just like in that Twilight Zone episode where you would be given a million dollars if you would agree to push a button that would kill a person you did not know.

The kicker being soon after you decided to push the button a man in a suit would come knocking on your front door asking for the button back. "So where is it going?" You would ask. "Oh, don't worry..." He'd answer in his best spooky voice. "We're gonna give it to someone you don't know."

So while I'd like a million dollars and the ease of an artificially created pathos, I guess I don't have the stomach for random murder "Twilight Zone" style even hypothetically.

I am not your father's Archie Bunker.
Whatever happened to fat, middle-aged, short, bald white guys being cool? And by cool I don't mean hipster. I know what "hipster" means even without having read a Reader's Digest in the last 25 years.

What's it take to maintain the interest of females these days? Don't you get me? Maybe we can just be friends? I know you like to hang out with cool, funny guys. We can sit around and berate your boyfriend's "made up on the spot" excuses for why he banged your sister.

We can sit next to each other on the couch and you can lean into me with an insincere intimacy. And in a moment of frustrated arousal I will grab for your boob. And you can be like "That's like totally gross! That 'totally' tries to change our relationship. I don't know if I can think of you the same anymore."

But I suppose you feel the way you've always felt about fatty (200lbs), middle-aged (34), short (Hey Doug Flutie is 5 '9 too!), bald(ing) white (so-not so tanned) guys.

Ssecretly you pine for us. You want to get down and dirty, nasty like with us. You have a fetish for sex with disgusting guys. I read about it in Maxim, or maybe it was Oprah's magazine? Either way that's pretty messed up. But most likely you'll just hold "it" all in, all your perversions and go on ignoring me like the rest of humanity does.

Go ahead. Try to ignore me. You can avert your eyes ... sigh and "put up" with me when I try to be cool. You can go make fun of me with the rest of the cute waitresses in the back of the restaurant.

But I will warn you and the rest of the nation, ignore me at your own peril. The meek Sunday morning pancake eating NFL watching white guy next to you at the sports bar is a shaken aluminum soda can full of rage. I just dare your ass to pop my top. I 'll spray all over you in a sugary coated syrupy mess. I'll get in your eyes and sting bitch.

You don't want to fuck with me. I can walk into a McDonald's and shoot up a room, then order a dozen chicken McNuggets to go. Who do you think does all the stalking? Who picks up all the little girls in unmarked vans and drives them out to the middle of nowhere? Single white males who get no attention that's who. So maybe it's time to start paying a little more attention to me-that's all I am saying.

You think Caucasians can't have pathos? Or maybe you're just looking for a little more ethnic in your gravitos? Why do you think only the ghetto makes you crazy? Try the suburbs baby. I want my props! Who do you think buys up all that Gansta Rap and Death Metal? Young white suburban males. We've been killing our species since Cro-Magnon met Neanderthals.Kudos to me for the longest fucking title of my bloggin career.
2 ....the number of women who have pleasured themselves to my writing. And you know who you are. Quit asking yourself "Will he fuck me?" Of course I will. Line up my bitches, you can get all three inches of my thunder.

Please pardon the cum stained pages from my journal this entry has come from. I have no idea how they got there. Let me repeat that, "I have no idea how they got there. I mean I am pretty sure they may have come from me walking around dripping looking for a towel after masturbating.

Had I noticed the cum stains I assure I would have cleaned them up. I certainly wouldn't have allowed them to sit around for several days. That would make running over the crusted up surfaces difficult witha pen. I'd like to think that I treat my pen with a bit more dignity than that.

Do y'all remember the movie "Revenge of the Nerds III?" Do you remember it's stunning and mournful theme song? Of course you don't. It was a shitty third tier Made-for-TV movie from USA Cable Networks "The Denny's of late night TV programming."

I think their slogan was "It's late, your up--we're on, so quit your fucking complaining. Plus we've got super special guest star "Booger" returning, and he doesn't exactly get paid scale these days."

I am the World and it Ends Tonight.

 I am the World.  And it ends tonight. <---Read this first

I need more friends that drink. Drinking with friends gives me the peace of mind you get when you're alone.

I take a walk.  I hope a walk would clear my head.  I walk toward my neighborhood bar and watch as the Sun beams it's last friendly smile down at me.  Feel the cool winter breeze on my skin.  I walk alone because I like feeling the insular protection of my singlehood.

As I walk past the local bar I know, I see a tattered eviction notice plastered to front of it's doorway. Just like the dwindling sunlight it's all gone now.  We've traded in locals bars for "brands" and upscale snobbery.

If I am going to drink at a bar tonight I'll have to walk to another bar.  The next closest bar is a few minutes away along a dying former interstate. The smell of exhaust fumes is thick along my walk.  I see cockroaches, but none scurry away from me.  They own these streets.  The roaches are bigger than mice. I keep my head down most of the way so I can keep track of them.  I don't like to step on them.

The next bar is more of a college bar.  It has some brand new outdoor patio.  I think I will sit on the benches and type my story here.  The beer is cheap and cold.  The bartender is usually pretty, but ignores me.  I used to think she had vacant eyes.  But I think the vacancy sign is reserved only for some.  For me there are no lights on and no open beds to rent.

I want to drink a lot of beer tonight. I don't want to have to order multiple times, so I order several beers at once.  The bartender frowns at my order.  I think I must have done something improper. I guess I should not order so many beers at once.  She confirms my suspicions when she asks me if I could, "just order one beer."  

I unfold my dollars carefully.  I count them out to her.  That way she will know I am not stiffing her.  She does not wait, but instead turns around to see to another order.  After pouring my beer she absentmindedly grabs my cash and stuffs it in the register.  I can't tell if she took my tip or not.  Then she sits down at the other end of the bar, far away from me near the window, and next to a pile of textbooks she is studying.  I wait to watch her take her seat and pick up her iPhone before I head over to one of the empty tables.  Each table has two benches made from scrapyard lumber and painted with one to few coats of "rustic" red paint. 

I don't really like this bar.  What the world really needs is more neighborhood bars.  Cramped rat holes with room for only six or eight people.  Low lights that you bump into on the way back from the filthy bathroom.  A place full of real drunks.  People who have stopped carrying what they look like to others and live only to drink.  I want the world to have more people like me.  Functional, but broken.  People should give up on their dreams.  They should go to work and save just enough to drink every night.  Go home afterwards and shower.  Don't talk to your spouses or children.  Just go to the bar and get drunk.  Maybe don't even to talk to anybody while you're there.  At the bar no one cares that you have problems.  Everybody at a bar has a problem.

I teach you things about Lesbians and Fatties (edited from Bathos)

I teach you things about Lesbians

I like the fact that the only people who read me are fat lesbians.  Though I say fat lesbian like there is some other kind.

I'm sorry about that fat lesbian crack.  I don't mean to hurt your feelings.  In fact most of my girlfriends have been fat lesbians, so I think I've learned a few things about them.

Like I know there are many different categories of Lesbians.

First there are the masculine Boy-lesbians. Boy lesbians look a lot like post-pubescent boys. They have short spiky hair, they wear boxer shorts and hang their pants off their ass like gangsters do. Boy lesbians scare the shit out of me. Boy-lesbians are militant feminists. And even though they are anti-penis they love penetration. Sometimes a boy-lesbian tries to pass herself off as a guy. Don't worry too much guys, boy-lesbians don't want to physically transform into a man, because being a boy-lesbian is way more fun. The just want to "try on" being a man. You know.. like finding out what it's like to pay for dinner and shit. Boy-Lesbians [aka aggressives] love to hook up with lipstick lesbians.



Lipstick lez's aren't even lesbians, they are just tired of guys getting "off " before they finish their orgasms. Watch out for a Lipstick lesbians. They will blame you for all their sexual problems. I know a lot of lipstick gals who've never used a vibrator or explored their pussies with a mirror or even watched an entire episode of Rosanne. How do they expect to achieve orgasm with some one else when they can't even give one to themselves?

 You've heard advice that women should "discover their bodies through the use of dildos."  Sound advice unless taken too far and that's usually what happens to the lipstick kind of lesbian.  She discovers her clit and then goes to town.  Eventually she can only get off using a vibrator and so she's ruined herself for normal dick.  Fuck no! I am not mutilating my dick by attaching metal rods sideways into my dick just because your shit is so stretched out from giant black dildos and numb from that pocket rocket electrocution that you can't feel my three inches of thunder!

If you aren't a lipstick vag or boy lesbian then you are probably on of those fat lesbians.  Too the fatties reading this and getting pissed off at me, don't. I know you aren't the kind of fat lesbian that turned her vagina away from dick, because the guys don't like you. You're fat. But not ugly. If you had a six pack of beer, a copy of Planet of the Apes for us to watch, and could stomach laughing at my jokes for an hour, you could get laid by me.

Then there is the reluctant lesbian, or the lesbian who just had too much religon mixed in her mommie's baby sack. Reluctant lesbians know that lovin' a chick is wrong and will get them to hell. But they have such overgrown clits that every time a hot chick walks by they get a boner like I did in 6th grade swim class. I remember how I forgot my swim trunks that day and had to borrow a pair of green see-through speedos that the school supplied for the idiots who forgot their trunks.  All those cute girls walked past me and I checked out their stiff nipples and got a boner. Only nobody knew I had one because I hadn't hit puberty yet, so my little wiener was more a like a Vienna Sausage than a life-sized cock.

I have no idea if that's why I developed that fetish for naked male /clothed female porn, or if the Vienna sausage thing got me excited about Sigmund Freud, and he made me want to be a psychologist until I figured out that would require a lot of work, and I was a lot more interested in jacking off than reading books and doing homework.

(I can teach you a thing or two about fat chicks. Even Though you may hate fat chicks.)

Because you are not the kinda fat chick who's pussy stinks, you may not know a lot about stinky pussy. First point of fact. If you are fat chick and if you think you have never had a stinky pussy, then I have some seriously fucked up news for you. Your pussy stinks. Your pussy always stinks and it's stinking right now. Do me a favor. Sneak a peak down there. Ok, now go smell that finger. I hope we got clear on this, Captain Tuna! You get my point.

The best thing about fat chicks is they have cleavage. And the best thing about cleavage is it look a lot like ass, only tits and cleavage don't drip shit out accidentally. The scary thing about fat tits on chicks is sometimes those chicks don't really have big tits. I mean sometimes it looks like they got a big rack. But sometimes those tits will turn out to just be a big fold. Some fat chicks have a skinny girl's small tit genes and just love to eat. And some fat chicks just have the random bad luck to have small tits and a giant frame. I've paid money for freak shows, but I always ask for my money back it they show me into a room full of fat chicks with tiny tits.

Some things are just too freaky, even for T.

Snuggles.

p.s. funny thing is I wrote all this shit before I watched the documentary "aggressives." I just watched the documentary because I downloaded it for free from the public library.

p.s.s. I prefer the term I invented for aggressives, boy-lesbians. Don't you? Here's the YouTube.

Whisper to me

Whisper is a new social media web application that allows you to write out your secrets anonymously. 

 

I have visited the website and Android application a few hundred times since Christmas. You might better categorize my obsession with the app by understanding that I have spent a few hundred hours on it.  I have developed numerous friendships. Most of the friendships do not last more than a few moments.  But those experiences have taught me something that I never learned in my Social Psychology classes.  Nor in all my time of reading Philosophy, Ethics or Morality.

I have learned about connection.  I have learned of my need for connectivity.  I have discovered that I can connect with any human at anytime even when that connection lasts only for seconds or moments and I have discovered that the connection can have consequence.  It can have lasting impact on me and my faith and my humanity and it can teach me that I no longer need to worry about run on sentences or my use of commas because the common man and the common women does not need commas and the common folk have theyre own way of talking and WH0 ARE WE TO JUDGE>???

 

 and in your case it's not even what's on the outside

I feel like because I am good 

looking people stop caring 

who I am on the inside.

 they just want the 

  outside.

(reply:)

You're cute.  Not the kinda hot that I'd skip wanting you to have a personality.

I don't know those folk, nor do you.  These are not the folk that sit around posting cat pictures and debating the merits of TOS and Deep SPace 9 ( a terrible series that never included cats to my knowledge.)

I learned other things these past days.

I learned my roommate doesn't feel the need to discuss his failure to make rent.  But he can smoke pot, and have sex with a woman and all I will do is post 7 second snap-chats to anonymous strangers I find on Whisper jerking off to frothy vaginas that synchronously show up in my Inbox.

There.  I said it.  A woman's vagina is a box.

Trapping me here in this space and time.  Squeezing the lumps in my nuts, like the growing tumor pressed against my thigh, or gushing over me like the squishy knee that props me up limp like, my exposed gut creeping forward and hanging on the conveyor belt of grocery store life that I call exisitence.

What I learned from Whispers you cannot unlearn There is a new level of social organization.

Do not visit the Whispers if you cannot handle this new level of intimacy/privacy/anonymity/fame

There is nothing to see there.

Move along.