My last blog post got 1 billion hits, so this probably won't be much different.

File this blog post under things that should not be.  Here is a picture of my infected leg.

I have this strange desire to touch my infection, and then rub my eyes.

The infection has actually gotten a little better, even though your only comparison is a picture I tweeted the other day where the size looked much smaller.  But the entire leg was swollen and hard from the swelling.  The swelling has decreased quite a bit.

At first I was prescribed Bactrim. I did not handle it well.  I can't take most antibiotics as I am allergic or I have strange reactions to the medication.  The doctors look at me like I'm from outer space when I describe tales of panic attacks, hallucinations, insomnia, minor convulsion like movements, stiffness in neck, headaches.

The physician's assistant tells me that my symptoms are "probably caused by the infection," but she went ahead and adjusted my medication anyway.

I don't have a primary care doctor, so I end up at clinics and ER's and things like that.  I have no history with the doctor and they don't know me well, so they just assume I am crazy I guess.

I mean I am crazy.

I am having panic attacks daily now.  They are even getting worse.  Sometimes I don't recognize my hand or foot as belonging to me.  Even though I know they belong to me.  It's like I am getting an inside view of my fucked up brain when it hallucinates this shit, just so it can prove to me that the data it's working on is real.

I get it brain.  Your shit is real.  How about working on fixing the part of the brain that knows that my body parts really belong to me?  Then maybe we can stop the panic attacks that wake me up at 7 in the morning.

I jump out of bed spreading blood and puss everywhere.  I see closed eyed visuals of swirly jellyfish.  I swing my fists madly like I am getting attacked by something from Pandora.

My emotional life is a mild state of anxiety at all times.  I go hopping from one panic attack to the next.  Dreading the next one.  Sometimes getting caught off guard if it's been a few hours of "feeling baseline."  Not that baseline to me is anywhere near normal of a few years ago.

All my friends seem worried about me.  That write and tell me that I seem to be falling apart.  They know 80 year old men in better health.  I have let all my problems fester.  Now like the wound you see before you, it runs deep buried into my living tissue.  And now it seems to only want to rot from within.

There is stinky pile of puss, fuming away at my insides.  There is a rabid attack force of celulitis set upon me.  I await necrosis.  The ultimate in self destructiveness.

There is so much infection in me on any normal day that I bet the antibiotics are wondering where to go first.  Should we attack the infected ingrown toe nail from 2 years ago?  Should we go after the sebaceous cyst on his scalp?  What about the cancer in his testicles?

"Fuck that!" I bet the antibiotics say.  "I mean we are just for anti-malaria."

Wait didn't I read somewhere that anti-malaria antibiotics are horrible for you?

Whatever.  I'm tired of doing battle.  I am losing it anyways.

So broke I have to break into my penny stash.

I think Qwest must have double dipped my account.  Bastards.  And of course the phone company has no service people on Sunday to answer questions for me.  So if you walk past a dis-shelved man and wonder why he is letting blood roll down his leg.  Now you know why.  Fucking penny machine counter was broke.

p.s. send gauze and tape, also antibiotics that don't give panic attacks, but are strong enough to kill this vicious infection, plus some Valium or something for my nerves.

I blog again. I bet when I don't it feels like someone vomited a bucket of boredom into your skull. Also, I add some grocery store etiquette tips to make this thing worthy

I'm holding in a shit while I type this.  Nothing new there.  If you don't hold in shits they get all over the place.  With my weak bladder and my AIDS infested liver I leak shit like your paraplegic boyfriend does.

Though at least he has someone that will change his colostomy bag, all I've got is a girl who texts me to ask me the name of the author she forgot I told her.  Poppy Z Brite is the answer.  And she writes vampire novels, or at least she did a few years ago,  now she writes cook books or something set in New Orleans.

If I have a crush on you I will stop everything I am doing an reply to your text message.  You should be fucking grateful, but I doubt you are.

Here's a idea for you the next time you find yourself in a grocery store standing in line at the check out counter:

Finish your shopping BEFORE you get in line.  People, I really hate it when you just wander off to collect that gallon of water you forgot to purchase even though water comes out of your tap for free.

I have a few more rules for you even though I know you think the rules don't apply to you, which is why you are pushing a cart full of groceries through the express lane and making jokes at me.  At least you are trying to calm my anger.  That's a good thing.  I think you can tell that I am close to losing it, and you might be the thing that sends me off the cliff.

If so I guarantee I will find you outside when I bring the AK 47.  You better damn well believe that I will blow your fucking head off.  I hate people who think the rules apply to everyone else but them.  But you have always been like that haven't you?  That's why you masturbated in your girlfriend's yogurt.  Just to show her who's boss.  Nothing sicko.  You just needed to convince her that your the dominate one in this relationship.

Here is my second request.  Learn to fucking count.  If you can't learn to count use a calculator,  if you are too lazy to count or use a calculator you forfeit your right to question the addition properties of the register (which is a fucking counting machine yo.)

I promise you 5 + 2 + 1 = 8

I don't give a fuck if you don't believe me.  You are not entitled to an "opinion" about what constitutes a number.  8 has a objective reality that exists outside your opinions.  You owe me 8 fucking dollars, now pay up or get the fuck out of my line.

A lot of cashiers can't count.  So if you see the pretty little girl's face squish up in a manner denoting perplexity then go ahead and be confused together.  But I assure you the machine does not ADD incorrectly.  If the prices on the products you purchased reflect accurately then I assure you the machine has ADDED them correctly.  Never seen the machine add 2 and 3 and get 6 like you.

It should be noted that I can add however.  I am bald, ugly, fat dude.  So you can bet I have seen every episode of the original Star Trek series, that I gush over women who wear Princess Lea buns in their hair, that I haven't been laid in 5 years, and that if we are talking Mathematics below finite that I am pretty much know what I am talking about.

I can do multiplication in my head. Yeah!  That's right asshole.  My head is like the calculator function on your cell phone that you refuse to learn how to use.  Some guy took the time to teach your phone to do all kinds of tricks that makes it way more smarter than you and yet you fail to learn to use something that could make you way smarter looking if you used it.

Here's another tip.  Look in your wallet before you buy stuff.  See how much money you have.  Did you bring money?  Do you know the password to your Food Stamp card?  I know why don't you wait until you are in line with a bag full of steaks, kool aid, and beer before you call your fat white girlfriend with the big ass and 3 kids from 3 different dads to ask her what the pass code is on her her EBT Food stamp card that I pay for with my taxes.

I can't remember the last time I had a steak.

I find that to be bullshit sometimes.  As fucking liberal as I am.  I can only imagine what the conservative assholes in line are thinking.  Something like "at least buy a fucking condom with some of that cash."

"No, you cannot buy beer with food stamps asshole,but yes you can buy regular stamps."

--And no you can't buy regular stamps either, Jesus.

I will never stop being your Hobo, no matter what I say

I'm like the original Charlie Sheen.  My prose was blowing you away years ago.  You were feasting off my tiger blood, and we were #winning, and everything seemed great to you. You thought it would never end.

I bet you still don't understand why I left you.  Sure, you understand that you were never enough for me.  That I have always  had plans to jump ship and head off to bigger waters.  You get that I hate being a big fish in a little pond.  But for some reason you thought that you would have access to me for the rest of your pathetic lives.  

How wrong you were.

Why?

Because I just came up with another million dollar idea.

It involves a paper bag puppet of baby jesus and Youtube and is sure to make me a millionaire. 

As soon as I am rich I will forget all about the little peons that have supported me over the years.  i'll forget about the 5 dollars the drug monkey once gave me for writing about Ethiopians.  Money I never cashed in, because I was too proud to take money back then.  Not now.  I will take all your money if you want to give it to me.  I will sleep with your underage daughters.  I will stick my dirty pinky finger in your peanut butter- just out of spite, because I am fucking hobo.

I'm a fucking hobo, but I wear my hobo on the inside.  I don't hop trains.  I take showers and get grossed out by too large spiders.  I will only touch your spider if you offer me some Xanax afterwards to calm me down.  Also, I will flirt with your girlfriend when you aren't around, because there is a possibility you could kick my ass.

I only fight kids, girls, and midget (and fellow hobos if we are both drunk on fermented malt liquor and getting pissed about how long the bus is taking to show up.)

So just take that into consideration the next time you stop by this blog and you don't see me updating it.  You should understand that my brain has stopped working.  That my attention span has wandered off.  It's playing meth games with porn stars. It's raping women in the bathroom, it's MTV cutting away to strangulation videos.  It's searching for decapitation videos while I strangle my own neck.

I don't have time anymore to write.  I lack focus.  And the only thing that keeps me alive is wondering about what the next mobile device I will own looks like.  Will it have 3D?  I am sure it will .  I think we all need 3D capture on our phones.  That way when I choke the life out of you, it will be like your parents are in the same room.  It will be your last bonding moment together.  Frankly, I can't think of any more "real" moment you have ever had with your parents than the one they will get watching you suffocate at the hands of some chubby 40 year old molester as he snuffs the last breath out of you.

You owe me for that. 

It's the Day after Valentine's Day, so I can stop being nice to you and start telling you how I really feel...

I woke not to the sound of my alarm, but to the sound of a distant lawn mower. 1:30 pm and the hot February Sun is poring in through the curtain less window.   I try to open my eyes, but my head is tingling too much from last week's illegal drug use.  Forget it.  I'll go back to sleep.

I'm sorry.  I'm cranky when I don't get my REM sleep.  I'm like a starving grizzly mother bear and you are a like an amateur documentarian that Wener Herzog is going to have invent a 3 dimensional personality for.  I'm going to eat you for breakfast and you are going to be like,"You are so fucking beautiful, man!"  

That's just nature's way.  The big and the hungry eat the meek and the curious.  And sometimes their girlfriends. 

It's the day after Valentine's Day.  I don't much give a shit for Valentine's Day.  Romance has always bothered me.  I have been told that I am least romantic person in the world.  But that's not true.  The least romantic person in the world is the guy who duck taped you inside his van and then laughs when you scream in pain as he slices off another hunk of your thigh for breakfast.

On the other hand, I don't buy cheap grocery store flowers or pre-molded heart shaped boxes of chocolate for you on the way home from work.  That hardly makes me a bad person.  At most it makes inconsiderate.  At best it makes me a hero when I donate all the money I would have wasted on flowers to S.h.a.r.e. or some other charity that keeps African children from dying from dysentery.

Speaking of dysentery.  I guess photoshopping a couple of staving children's bowel movements onto your Valentine's day card was a little "tasteless."  Sorry.  I can't help myself.  For a second there I thought you were going to enjoy your day and if you know anything about me by now it's that I can't stand anyone around me having a good time. (Unless I am drunk.  I guess we know why you became an Alcoholic. I just assumed it was all about meeting plenty of tattooed covered dick with intimacy problems.)

I digress.  This isn't supposed to be about you.  It's supposed to be about me.  Or about the readers, or somebody else.  But mostly I don't care about those things anymore.  I care only about my swollen heart.  It wants to beak again.  

Only thing about that?  I've noticed that is there is almost nothing left to break.  My humanity dissolves 

 like the gallon of water you pour into your busted radiator cap every time you get the urge to come pick me up.  I'm not sure why you need me.  I guess a shrink is too expensive.

p.s. to the little girl who cried when she dropped the christmas globe that was 90% off , you clumsiness in full effect you watched the glass fall and shatter, spilling water all over me. your big droopy eye, full of puss,stares... accusing me of  letting it break.  it's not as bad as it seems....

it's worse.

A woman loves me, a woman scoffs at me, a woman gyrates on me

There is a customer at my store who is love with me.  She asked her mother to ask me out on a date, because she is too shy to ask me herself.  Before she asked her mother to ask me out -she inquired to some of my co-workers if I was single. I bet she would like it if I asked her out for some coffee.

I don't have a car, and I don't like coffee.

Her mother showed me a picture of the woman before she asked me if I would like to get her daughter's phone number.  Her daughter had short blond hair that flipped up at the ends. She looked to be in her late thirties and was slightly overweight.

Her mother told me that she was aware that I was single and "since her daughter was single, would I like to get her number?"

I don't want your daughter's number.  She is not my type.

"I like them pretty."  I told the co-worker.  "I can't help myself."

I jotted down the phone number the old woman gave me.  I had to ask her to repeat the number twice.  I'm not sure why it was so important to me to get the number correct as I never intended to call her.

I told my ex-girlfriend about the woman.  She seemed unruffled.  She asked when I was going to go on the date with the girl.  I said, "never."

The ex-girlfriend called me her friend.  "Sometimes I go a long time without seeing my friends."

I don't want to be your friend.  I have way too many friends.  I don't like most of them.  Those I do like come over too often, or they ask me to do things for them.  Then they tell me things that are supposed to make me care about them.  And all this makes me uneasy.  It makes me guilty.  It fills me with fear.

There is something I don't like about the woman that loves me. She is a regular customer.  We have short discussions when I check her groceries out.  She is always smiling at me.  There is some twinkle in her eyes.  She seems grotesque to me now.  So happy.  So jovial.  I am the answer to all her problems.

I'm at Rocky Point Catina.  A woman is gyrating towards me at me.

She is petite, under 5 feet tall. A Mexican, she is wearing a skirt so short that it barely conceals her tiny panties.

She is overtly sexual.  Strong, thick black hair down to her waist. Amazing eyes that are wide with youth and vigor.

"Are you here alone?"  She asks.

"I am."

"I am with a friend." I also try and tell her.  But it is loud and my words do not work well when I am sober and being grinded into by a sexual beast.

She had been dancing by herself.  A practice of art that the ethnic woman of today has mastered.  They shake their booty.  They decide which man to rub against. It is a feminist dream come true.  A dream or a nightmare.  The woman are all about sex, display, and power.

The men are just happy to watch, to be chosen, to know we have fooled them into playing our game of casual sex with no feelings.  The men sit back because they know they have won.

Stephanie has been ignored all night by the men.  Despite the fact that she is one of the best dancers at the club.  Perhaps the men (all negro) have no interest in Mexicans.  She is a nice looking woman though child like in size.

"How old are you?" She asks  She pauses her ass shaking to look up at me.   Her eyes are ablaze.  She has mastered the turn and stare.  Her hair flares out magnificently.  She looks like she knows she is being filmed for MTV.

I told her I was 39.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was at the bar."  I tell her.

She goes back to humping me.  A few minutes later I am high fived by a brother.  He winks at me.  I wink back and high five him.  I shove my hands in the air.  I am confounded by all the movement my partner is making on my genitals.  I am slightly aroused, but know instinctively that too much arousal is bad, (but that some  is good.)

Stephanie finds my penis and squishes it back an forth between her butt cheeks.  She uses me a stripper pole.  She writhes up an down on my body.  She is showing off for all the other men.

Her friend has a hold of her arm.  Her friend has had enough of Stephanie showing me a good time.  But for some reason Stephanie is stubborn.  She has wanted to dance with a man.  She has wanted to grind.  She has wanted to hump.  And I am content to let her.  So she rewards my patience.

A few minutes later and Stephanie decides she will attempt to attract a younger man.  I wander off to the bathroom.  The restroom is strangely empty despite the fact that the club part of the bar is packed with sweaty black men and woman.

None of them are in the restroom which smells heavily of pot smoke.  The amount of smoke is obnoxious.  It is patently obvious what everyone is doing.  They are all smoking week.  I make the racist observation aloud that "this would not be allowed in a white bar."  In a white club.

If you are white you smoke weed in your car, or at your house.  Everyone knows that at the club you snort coke.  You don't smoke weed in a club. It's lower class. But maybe pot is why everyone here is so relaxed.  I am my usual clumsy self and I bump into a number of large African-American men.  None of them get angry at me.  None of the show even the slightest hint of resentment or annoyance towards me.  Some of them apologize for my mistake.

On my way back from the restroom I notice Stephanie is alone again.  She has her rear end pointed out.  She is waiting for a man again.  I think about going over to her.  I think about getting behind her and mounting her.  I think about telling her I am sorry for not having a car.  That I live just a few blocks away.  That we can walk there.  That I will offer a cab ride home after we are done.

"I am 21."  She tells me.  But I don't see one of those paper bands they place around your wrist when you can drink.  I think she is 18.  She must be at least 18 I tell myself.  They check ID's here very carefully.

But I don't tell her anything else.  I just walk out the door.  I leave the club to go get a pizza and a coke.  When I am done I walk home alone.

I am still Awesome.

I am all kinds of awesome.  I am chowing down on bite-sized snickers bars.  The candy is wrapped like Christmas presents.  The shiny, silver packages are reminiscent of New Year's Eve celebrations.  I feel all glitzy every time I eat one.

So I ate like 50 of them today, and I am feeling glamorous as fuck.  I guess you could say that I feel like a gay man does every day.

I am tired of customers.

I have decided that customers are like pigeons.  They are capable of learning things, but only if we put them in Skinner boxes and jolt them with electric current until we see the behavioral outcomes we desire.


I had two days off from work and I did not do shit.

It is cold as fuck in Tempe.  Cold as fuck in Tempe means something like 35 degrees.  Which to some of you is sunbathing weather.  But whatever.  For people like me it is time to stay indoors.

Of course being indoors does not help me as much as you might think, I don't have central heat in my apartment.  Instead I have two portable heaters.  One of the portables stays in my roommates room.  He keeps the damn thing plugged in all day, and I can hear it churn on and off even after he has left the house.

If I plug my heater in at the same time it will pop a fuse.  So I go without heat, because that's just the kind of sociopath/serial killer I am.  The kind that makes sure his roommate is comfortable.  I always think about other people, it's my downfall.

I haven't discussed my recent anxiety over all things electric, but I guess now is a good a time as ever.

I was nearly electrocuted when my landlord tried installing the hot water heater himself.  I was checking out the A/C gauge (located on the opposite side of the wall from the hot water heater-about 1 meter away) when the landlord switched on the power from the main switch outside.

I got a loud pop and a fireball that rocked me into the wall and had me freaking out and jumping out of the hallway.  I waited in living room feeling dazed and confused as nearly being killed caused quite a bit of consternation on my end, though my landlord had no problem touching 240 volts of electricity, he continued to short out heating elements over the coarse of the next few days before finally getting the heater to stay on and function properly.

Note: I did not say that he grounded the wiring properly.  Just that we have hot water.  Hot water is nice, but I fear walking down my hallway out of my room. I am certain I will be electrocuted from some improper grounding of the hot water elements.  If not that I expect to awaken to the smell of sulfur and flames from the electric fire in my hallway.

Do not worry about me.

I have begun work on tying several bed sheets together in hopes that I can make an escape from my second story apartment before the flames engulf me.

I am certain that my anxiety stems from this VERY real situation.  I am not certain how REAL the following account is however.

A few days after the electrical explosion I was sitting on my bed and smelled something burning.  It smelled like rubber being burned, or perhaps sulfur.  After the smell I noticed a head rush, and a pins and needles tingling in my head.  I began to panic assuming the hot water heater was discharging electricity or was catching on fire.

I got up and rushed out of my room into the hallway.  As I got close to the heater to check on it I began to feel pounded.  I screamed and fell to the ground.  My knee began to shake and  it pummeled back and forth striking the ground at a high velocity and rate. I could not stand up.  My first thought was that I was being electrocuted.  It was all I could do to scream out for my roommate to run out the house.

I managed to hop into the living room from the hallway.  I recall being quite frighted.  I was unable to get my barrings.  My roommate kept asking me questions, "What's going on?  What's wrong?"  But I could not seem to respond.  My head was cloudy.  My knee was in pain.  And my only impulse was to get the hell out of the living room and some place safe from the live wire in the hot water heater.

I must have made a terrible racket as I left the apartment.  My downstairs neighbor heard the commotion and opened his door just as I made my way down the stairs.  I was discombobulated.  In my frantic state my worried neighbor offered me his cell phone so that I could dial 911.

I offered him and the operator my story and fire personal were dispatched to my place immediately.  The fireman once there were understandably confused, and in my disoriented state I was unable to give much of an explanation.

I did tell them I smelled something, was shocked, felt a seizure like jolt in my brain and leg, and was now worried that the electric power might be still live.

The fireman offered to check my vitals but did not push for it.  Despite the fact that I was clearly in disoriented, had difficulty with train of thought, and had just offered up details that sound a lot like a mild seizure.

They informed me that I had no burns, so they did not think that I was in any danger.  Further after inspection they found nothing alarming about the hot water heater.  The water worked and they were not shocked going upstairs.

I thanked them for their due diligence, apologized for bringing them out, and took them up on their offer to cut the power from the main fuse board.

Over the course of the next few days I began to have panic attacks.  Anxiety as high as I have ever experienced.  I began to have moments of depersonalization.  I could stare into the mirror and forget that I was staring at myself.  I would begin to punch myself in the face.  I would show my penis to my mirror image.  Masturbate. While masturbating I would get  the idea to cut off my testicles.  I took clippers and pressed into my skin until blood began to stream from them.  Luckily I would climax at that point which would bring me back to reality and put and end to my desire to harm myself.

As one might expect I began to become alarmed by my behavior. I went to the emergency room where I was informed by the attending physician that I should stop doing ecstasy.

He further noted that my vitals were stable.  And that he would in, "no way add to the soup of chemicals in my brain by giving me anything."

I described to him my possible seizure.  My stereotypic behaviors, along with my firm contention that I was suffering from "more that a mild case of Serotonin syndrome." He concurred that it was highly probable that I was suffering from Serotonin syndrome, but he reiterated that would not treat Serotonin Syndrome at the ER level.

My physician let me know that his belief was that I was having  panic/anxiety attacks.  "I don't think you are suffering a panic attack, ---You ARE!"  With that casual dismissal he had had enough of me.  He suggested that I seek behavioral health therapy from an affiliated hospital.

My retort was that psychotherapy was of little help at this point, and that I did not need a 12 step program to give of the party drug E.

"It's not heroin, sir.  I am not addicted."

My doctor then explained that he thought that I sounded quite intelligent, and that I should take the time to seek some mental therapy as "it's not just psychotherapy" that he was offering.

I recall thinking that the doctor was impressed by knowledge of stereotypic behavior and Serotonin Syndrome.

Eventually I relented to his pressure to see a psychologist and to get some referrals to his affiliated mental hospital, but after waiting an additional hour or so with no show from the behavioral side, I decided to leave the ER.  I made my way past the receptionist who whisked me along with a simple "you are free to go."

It's been 2 weeks since then.  I've been very ill, though it was just a cold.  Mentally, I have been gradually coming back to normal.  I smell the burning rubber less frequently.  I can look for quite some time in the mirror without problems.

My masturbating to rape, chocking, rough sex, and strangulation videos is waning.  I no longer feel the amphetamine like high when women stare at me, or when woman moan in pain on porn sites.  I orgasm normally.  The intensity is now like one would expect from a 40 year old male.  Masturbating today is hardly worth the effort if I do not wait a few days in between tugs.

I am still anxious about electric appliances.  I refuse to plug in my portable heater because soon after I see the red warning sticker light up.  In addition, as I have said,  I have had the fuse pop several time when I have plugged in the heater which has caused my quite some consternation.

I was not feeling anxious today....

That is until I came home and all the lights in the house were off.  The living room lamp had burned out.  The dining room track lighting had burned out.  The kitchen florescent light would not come on.

I took charge of the situation.  Bravery not always my strong point I still felt I had to do something.

I changed the light bulb in the living room.  I went from one of those good for the Earth CFL's to the old fashioned incandescent.  The bulb burns strong and produced 50% more light than the ecologically sound bulb.  The florescent bulb in the kitchen spontaneously started working again.  Though it flickers eerily.  I assume some kind of reminder that it wants me dead.

The dining room light stopped working after a bit, I assume the incandescent bulb does not fit or work with track lighting.  I hope.  The bulbs in the bathroom also flicker eerily even after being replaced.

I find my home to no longer be a place of comfort.  I think it a death trap.  I am positive we need to have the place rewired.  I will die in a fire.

But perhaps not.  I am a light sleeper.  Hopefully I will smell smoke, or feel the discharge of electricity and make my way out before thousands of volts surge coarse their way through to stop my beating heart.

At least I pray that it will go that way.

Peacocks, electrocutions and seizures...OH MY!

It's nice to know that even a few people still want me to write.

I wish I had half the skill it takes to be even a decent blog writer.  I want to able to write like one of my favorite blog writers, Alecia.  I think her voice would go well with all the craziness in my life right now.

She also encourages my writing, which is nice.

Though I bet she watches NASCAR  just for the crashes.

So much has been going on.  So let me fill you in.

Almost electrocuted while installing a hot water heater.*
Mild seizure from abusing Ecstasy.*

Got a girl.  (Well kinda.  It ain't official as neither of us is into relationships.)

The new gf lives in the ghetto.  To get to her house I have to navigate through a virtual modern day land mine.  I have to avoid onerous canines that look both dangerous and sickly all at once. I imagine the same kind of dogs can be found huddled in packs in pleasant sounding places like Somalia.  In addition to the dogs, I must dodge roosters, chickens, and the neighborhood peacock to get to the guest house behind her parents home where the gf lives

That's right, I just said I had to dodge the neighborhood peacock.

(Lets call my new almost girlfriend M.  She is the old GF from my third best post ever. )

M. invited me to dinner and asked me to drop by around 6.  She was "into cooking now" she said, and she wanted to show off all her new culinary skills.  When I arrive she tells me she has to go pick up her other kid who is at her father's house. She suggests leaving me alone with her son because father # 2 is a real asshole and will start shit with her if he sees her with any other man. [read all about him and her in this post.]

M. leaves to pick up her daughter, though before does that she stops at a friend's house to get high, after getting high she goes grocery shopping.  Because a bitch is going to get hungry after getting high, am I right?  She finally gets back around 9:30 loopy high and slightly drunk.  Her sister and friend stay over until 1:30 in the morning. I think you sense I am not getting laid again.

You are correct. I don't.  I do almost get to third base.  Does fingering labia count if there is no insertion of digit into vag?  Ladies let me know.

I know what you are thinking, I'm a natural born sucker.

I sent her a text 2.5 hours in to her adventure saying, "did you get lost?"  She replied that she hoped I was not mad at her for leaving her.  I told her, "we'd talk after she got home," but we didn't.  She does not like me to get/stay mad at her. Though I guess she does like me as a babysitter.  I'm such a nice guy.

The following day on the walk to the bus stop she explains to me that "if you are going to date a girl with kids you have to be prepared to watch them on occasion."

I suppose she is right.  I am sure there is some added responsibility when  with you date a girl with kids.  Though I am not exactly sure how inviting me to dinner** at 6 and not having dinner ready for me, but instead taking off to a friend's house to get high, and then do some errands without even asking me beforehand is really part of the responsibility I took on.

Here is the part where I describe my babysitting skills.

Her son is so attention starved it's kind of sad.  The Kid was ecstatic to have a male in the house.  Sat right next to me and was rubbing his MERSA/Chicken Pox all over my Droid with his grubby little infested hands.

Then I played video games with him for 2 hours.  I hate video games.  And I really hate playing video games with 7 year old kids.  When you play video games with little kids you have to play the way the kid wants to play.  Which basically means he gets to kill you, over and over again, and you have to take it.

The next day I had a fun talk about all this with the Ex-Internet Girlfriend.

She wants to start a Facebook profile and add me as a friend in order to make all the girls on the internet jealous of me.  She is going to create a profile using a hot "girl next door" looking photo and talk shit to the NEW/OLD GF.  I think she even wanted me to change my status to "in a relationship with this fake profile.

Very funny stuff.  Talking with is how I want to relate to a girl.  We never have strange pauses in our conversation.  We never run out of stuff to say.  She actually makes me laugh.  She's really funny. I wanna date a girl like the EX Internet GF/only I think she would have to be more of an alternative chick.  Less conventional than the Internet ExGF in order to get past my inability to be a "real man" in the  world.

You know the whole "I don't really take care of business" attitude that has me at the age of 40 lost in a dead end job, nursing the gangrene on my stubbed toe for two years, avoiding my hot water heater for fear of getting electrocuted, trying to survive on only three fourths of my salary (the rest getting stolen from me by loan companies) bus riding, overweight, balding, insecure, borderline personality disorder, panic attack having, seizure having -from simple recreational drug use- one day suspension getting- and only one more tardy away from getting fired, loser self.

Who am I kidding?  What alternative chick is into that?

I bet I am wrong to hope that if a girl dyes her hair strange colors she won't give a shit about things like stability from her man and instead they just want someone that makes them laugh as we freeware are way through the garbage for dinner.

p.s. Hippy chicks, please inform me if you too desire stability, and some form of conventional masculineness from your men.  If so, I assume this puts me back on the path to getting duck tape and storing a hot sorority girl in my basement.  Or putting up with white trash women who cuckold me-  without me even getting to jerk off.

*That's a whole fucking story.
**She did end up making me a sandwich with mayo.  I hate fucking mayo.

p.s.s. Stay tuned and I will write something about the panic attacks I keep getting.  How I am dissociating and punching myself in the face while trying to stab one of my balls off.  I mean I finally get why crazy people decide to chop off an arm.  Not that I was ever going for knowing about that feeling.

Happy Thanksgiving: An Epic Poem from Romius T.

Everything is empty
and everything
you do
hurts me
in my
soul

and
"we're not
running
a special on turkeys" I tell you
because I think you're an asshole.

but at least I can see
down your shirt
when you bend over
you
skeezer bitch...

It's getting worse

I might have had a "mild" seizure last night.  I was convinced I was electrocuted (that's a whole story.)  I called the fire dept.  I am having panic attacks that last all day now.  I did E a few nights ago and on my birthday which was last week.  I think my brain got fried.  I think that's why I am paranoid and having electric shocks (Serotonin syndrome.)

The End is Nigh

Nigh means near, right?  I am not writing in the blog right now (or anywhere else for that matter.)  I was going to write a post about it on my birthday, but I never started it.

But if you still check the blog daily, or weekly for new stuff you might want to be even more sporadic.  I am not sure when (or if) I plan on writing anymore.

In case I don't- let me thank all those folks that stopped by and gave a shit.  Thanks.  Really!

I'm like a "mean" David Cross?

I'm like a mean David Cross?

How is that even possible?  David Cross is like the meanest person on earth.

He has a giant swimming pool full of drowning kittens.  An entire swimming pool, full of kittens.  He has giant tubes that connect to the pool that dump kittens into it by the hundreds.  Hundreds of kittens at a time into a giant, swirling 20 foot tall hot tub.

As soon as the pool gets full of kittens he floods the pool full of water and turns on the heated  water jets.  Then he just sits back in his chair (after a hard day's work of screaming at little old ladies leaving bible school) and watches as the poor little creatures jostle around  and drown.

Now answer me this?  How in  the world am I anything like David Cross?

I don't have a pool or anything.

Dog days of Summer

If you have come here hoping that I have awoken "Kant like" out of my days of slumber, then I have bad news for you.

I am not sure if that day is coming.

I don't know what to tell you folks.  What I can tell you is that I am not even checking out my blog stats on a daily basis.  Nor even a weekly basis.  I can't remember the last time I looked them up.

That is heresy to every blogger I know.

Perhaps we should no longer call me a blogger.

I make a decision I am sure I won't keep.

I have decided to forgo anymore E for the next two months.  I am hopeful that after a period of rest my brain will return to normal.  If not then I guess I will join the ranks of the millions of you who choose to never read a book.  Who watch Jersey Shore and drink Tequila in the morning.

I drink for medicinal purposes only.

Alcohol is the only drug that quiets my brain.   A heavy night of drinking slows down my Central Nervous System to the point that I feel almost like my self again.

I am on my third beer tonight.  It's 4am and I have to work tomorrow.  Most people would not be drinking right now. But  doing things most people do has never been anything I have  been good at anyways.

Note to self:  Identify and enumerate things  I am good at.  Write the list and stick it in a bottle.  Throw out to sea.  If it comes back then you truly are "gifted and talented at something."

Secondary note to self:

Do not drink contents of said bottle as most likely they will be contaminated with oil- slash- irritating chemicals designed to break up oil.

Note the use of spelling out slash whilst making use of the physical dash.  Note that that note is not that interesting.

To quote a friend of mine that I have never met,  "They aint all gotta be epic."

Is there other big news?

I recently added the Chinese Android Rom MIUI to my Droid. The Rom kicks ass.



Things I have noticed about the ROM.

• Much quicker than stock.  I was not overclocking my phones computer processor and my phone was quite snappy.  
• No app drawer.  Big flaw in my mind that was almost a deal breaker.   I added Launcher pro, but hate Launcher pro mostly because on my droid it usually ends up seriously lagging along with some serious redraws.
• I love the advanced notification bar that gives one the ability to toggle gps, wifi and the like.
• Totally dig the lock screen that gives you three choices as to where your unlocking will take you.  Text, Phone or Home Screen.
• iPhone like. But what the hoohey.  
• Some cool wall papers.
• There is a lot of other cool stuff, but you don't care.  

Note you need to be "rooted" in order to apply the rom to your phone.  I do not recommend that you void your warranty and I am not responsible when you brick your Samsung Alias trying to put this kick ass rom on your low tech messenger phone.

Go ask mommy for a smart phone.

Maybe I will give away my phone in some kind of super contest.*  I think I would get more hits for doing that, than if I suddenly was able to write like Kerouac.

*I will never give my phone away you jack-asses.

At least the masturbation is good

I have permanently damaged my brain. It's been several days since I got high and I am still suffering the effects of the intoxicants I took.  The intoxicants can kill on the first try.  I must have a death wish to try shit like that.

My brain is fucked.  I am slow and retarded now.  I barely function at work.  If I did not have 30 IQ points on the average person, I would not be able to function at all.

I won't go into what I did.  But let's just say it was stupid.  It was the stupidest thing I have ever done.

What I will tell you is that if you hoped I'd really become a serial killer (and stop fucking around with the literary pretensions of this blog) then you may be very pleased by what I have done to myself.

I have violent thoughts on occasion now.  Usually when I am masturbating.  I get very tingly all over and the high returns  with a powerful sensation whenever I think about sex.  Also whenever I touch myself.  Or whenever I see a woman in tight clothing.

I can watch VERY violent things on the internet and get very turned on now.  I mean VERY turned on.  I lose control.  I lose my voice from screaming along with at the TV or my computer monitor.

I am tingly as we speak even though it has been several days since I have had any intoxicants (other than double cheeseburgers) inside me.

I enjoy repetitive (I think it's called stereotypic behaviors.)  Grinding my teeth or tensing my body causes the euphoria to return to me.  I can taste metal on my tongue.

I have searched the internet for more information on the disturbing health effects  I have noticed.  There is virtually no information available.  This is surprising and alarming to me.  I am very good at finding things on the internet, so I know if there was more information out there I would have found it by now.

The few bits of information I have found suggest that the effects of the intoxicants I took could last days, weeks, even years.  I had no idea one simple exposure could cause such drastic health concerns to a person.

I am not stupid.  I new it was dangerous. I new I could die the first time I did it.  But I figured any drug could be used one time without long term effect.  I am wrong.

I feel high as I type.  The feeling is actually quite pleasant. I tingle and as my mouth fills with a copper taste. My penis is especially sensitive.  My masturbation sessions now run hours.  I have incredibly intense orgasms.  The strongest of my life.

I do get paranoid.  I had a bad panic attack last night.  So bad I woke a friend up and took a taxi to their apartment.  I stayed for a few hours and took another taxi home.  That is a waste of 25 dollars, but I was so scared that I actually called 9-1-1.

I hung up before they answered.  I then got a call on my cell from the Tempe Police asking if someone called them.  I lied and told them I miss dialed.  That's when I decided to call my friend.  I was sure I was going to have a heart attack.  I have a heart condition that I have been hospitalized before over and assumed my racing heart was going to spin out of control and cause me to die.

My breathing patterns are strange now.  I have trouble drawing deep breaths.  I breathe shallow.  My sense of balance (always poor) is now even worse.

The music that plays in my head is loud.  So loud that I have trouble hearing people speak to me.  I have to ask people to repeat themselves over and over again.

I am worried that I will hurt someone.

Caught up in a masturbation session I would expose my penis to passer bys.  I would think about attacking a lonely girl sitting outside my apartment.

The thought of such a girl has given rise to a great swelling of euphoria in my brain.  It makes typing difficult.  I find my head swaying back and forth.  Licking my lips, I close my eyes and give into the sensation for a minute.  Then the dark-side pulls me.  I imagine the feel of her vagina.  Her protests and screams only further my imagination.  I now know why psychopaths enjoy the protests from their victims so much.  I have never enjoyed the feeling of my penis more than stroking it to the thought of fuck punching a girl to death.

This is truly disturbing for me.

Like I said I don't think anything will happen.  I am still in control of the dark side.  Even when it pulls and I allow the feeling to come over me and I am straining with all my might and tugging at my penis with the strength of an elephant I know I am in control.  I can stop it.  I know it wrong to enjoy it. But I also know the dark side is not me.  It is just tempting me with pleasure.  But it is different.  It is brutal.  It is pure cackling evil.

But it does feel incredible. Powerful.  The sensation is unlike anything you mere mortals have experienced.  It feels God-like.

I feel god-like when I masturbate, but it is quite terrible to feel this good all the time.  The simple task of grasping a pen can send shivers down my spine. The constant surge of adrenaline wears on me.  Even pleasure after a while can hurt. Can you imagine the pleasure of almost coming dragged out over 3 to 7 hours in a day?  It can be both excruciating and wonderful at the same time.

I enjoy the sly looks of lust I see in women.


My powers of observation are improved in one area.  I can read the minds of young women when it comes to sex.  I notice when they wear short shorts and tug the seams past the  bottom of their asses.  They quickly flash skin at me under the guise of scratching an itch.  I am savvy now.  I notice cleavage and hair tosses and flickers of interest in your eyes that I have never seen before.  The rest of my brain has shut down.  But it has left open the door to allow me to concentrate on sex.

The fog in my brain is here to stay.

I am worried that it will never go away.  Yesterday was the worst/I could barely move or talk.  Today I am much better.  So much better I thought I would go drinking tomorrow.  But just before bed I decided to masturbate.  Just to test the waters.  As I suspected, the feeling came roaring back.  I began shaking, thrusting my hips.  I grabbed my penis with two hands and fucked myself raw.

I keep wanting to write this:

I woke up in the hospital.  I don't remember how I got there.

It was my last sane thought before the intoxicants over took me.  I was going to write a book.  but that dream is over.  My new dream is to be normal.  To breathe deep and not worry about irregular heart beats.

(Sometimes I have trouble finding my heart beat and that sends me into a panic/then I feel the heart beat start to race and skip and that feeds back into the panic loop.)

I'm not crazy yet.  But I wonder how long it will be before it happens.

Watch the movie Sharktoctupus

A good friend of mine wrote the screen play.  You can watch the movie tonight on Sci-Fi Channel.  I refuse to call the network by it's new name.

You did not notice me ignoring you did you?

It has been for some time now that I have left you without knowledge of my circumstances, without tales of debauchery and the like that make the static days of your life seem to pop like a bag of microwaved popcorn.

My own head is like that bag of popcorn.  Though the serotonin  I have left in my brain is more like the dead kernels one finds at the bottom of the bag than the fluffy popcorn suitable for human consumption.

So it has been a while since we last spoke.  Do not think that it is some random time that has passed and we have not conversed.  On the contrary it was with great purpose that I have left you to your own devices.  To see you slither through the hallways of life with your head down and your arms protectively covering your books.

I, on the other hand, have been slowly sinking into an abyss that I will not quickly be rescued from.

I awoke this morning (and by this morning I mean afternoon) to a bedroom covered in the paraphernalia of my destruction.  A bottle of Raid insect repellent, (spilled: it's red juices now defacing my computer chair cushion), a 1 liter bottle of lighter fluid poured into a cristal glass, a Vick's inhaler, my computer screen stuck at reddit.com/jailbait, a package of extra polar ice gum, a bottle of lubricant for masturbation, the empty baggie where once was placed my final stash of ecstasy pills.

One would think I would wake to staggering headache.  I did not.  My head is fine except for a sluggishness of intellect which I expect you deal with naturally most everyday.  It goes unremarked by you, so let us cease to speak of my fogginess.  I have spell check to alleviate the most pernicious effects of the holes developing in my frontal cortex.  I have no idea what allows for you make it through the day, save God's grace that intelligence was not highly selected upon by evolution for survival.

I ran out of toliet paper four days ago.  I now fret before any bowel movement because of the added step of showering after releasing the putrid diarrhea dripping from my bowels.

What else have I been up to?

A few days ago I purchased 3 (24) packs of beer.  The beer cost me on $7.99 each 24 pack.  It was a great deal.  I got drunk enough on the beer.  Though not as drunk as the school aged skater boy that found himself in my apartment.  I have his skate board still.  The last I heard of him he was in the hospital.  I presume he is okay.  I left him on the side of the road and quickly disappeared.  Just so you know I called 9-11 for the poor boy, his eyes rolled back in his before he could thank me.

You see? I am not completely lost.

My latest million dollar idea is to develop a television show that purports to be a morally ambiguous  Twilight Zone.  But in reality I will use the fictional guise of the show to push my agenda of misanthropy.

The main character will be like the devil.  He will argue for the (incorrect?) position when it comes to things like suicide.

That would be the pilot episode.  A man considering suicide.  You will think of course that the Bill Bixby like loner character is there to save the suicider, but you will be wrong.  He will be there to offer support for suicide.  He will make elegant arguments about the meaninglessness of life.  He will set up straw man arguments for living.  He will demolish them.  He will show the ambiguity of the depressed person's life on others.

The case will be difficult.  It will not be obvious which choice should be made.  Perhaps we fade to black just as the gun's nozzle recoils.

Other shows will feature why being selfish is better than helping others.

Excuse me for not adding additional episodes.  Every time I swallow I get the delicious taste of lighter fluid nasal drip.  This causes an involuntary shudder that effects the tip of my penis is a strange manner.

Have you ever seen videos of ball crushing?  Women in high heels crush and step on the exposed genitalia of their cuckolded prey. Last night I understood for the first time the extreme pleasure that can be found in the crushing of one's penis.

I think that the Vick's inhaler gives special powers to my dick. As I feel no pain whatsoever, and the amount of abuse given to my penis is only matched by the damage to my pre-frontal cortex from huffing on whatever chemicals I could find last night.

Perhaps I should buy whippets as I hear they are less dangerous than gasoline.  But at this point do we care any longer?  Aren't you happy to see me go off the deep end finally?

My stomach is empty but I can not get out the gargled taste of lighter fluid from my mouth.  I think that means I will skip lunch.  A planned meal of two cheeseburgers and chips.  3 glasses of unsugared tea.

The cheese burgers are homemade. I am using frozen patties with a 73% fat content.  I have generic buns.  Tiny, they are made for children it seems.  Red onion, lettuce, mustard.  I am out of pickles.  The chips are strips of tortillas that I have deep fried.  I have no salsa.  I do have cheese wiz if the mood strikes.

I showered twice last night.  But it was not enough.  I am unclean.  The sticky mess of multiple shits is my life now.  I am traversing  this world without toilet paper, without so much as a sanitary napkin.

I am blowing my nose into the same towels that my roommate dries himself off with.  I am inserting assorted cooking utensils into various parts of my body to test the fecal content of my dishwasher.

Somehow I am still alive.  My ingrown toenail has long since moved to gangrene and the dead skin around it shrinks to a blackened hue.  The rest of the toes is swollen unnaturally from all the blood running to it.  Sometimes for fun I poke at it and watch as the blood drains into the shower.  It runs for for 5 minutes at a time.  I can poke it six or seven times before I get bored of watching the blood drip down.  Like Norman I see it all in black and white.

Why don't you pray for the heads of decapitated children to be re-attached

Every day I pray for the heads of decapitated children to be reattached.  But it never happens.

I think you should all join me in praying for real miracles.

I'd like to see the head of a child that was decapitated have his head magically reattached.

Stop praising Jesus for the work that doctors do like fixing broken arms and ruptured livers and stuff and take this pledge with me now!

***
Let's make Jesus earn his praise.  Until Jesus heals a decapitated child I will only give praise to the doctor/nurse/human I see physically manipulating the child through the "miracle" of science and technology.  From now on Jesus only gets credit for the reattachment of decapitations.
***
Now that we have all agreed we FINALLY have a real chance of curing the plague of decapitated children!

p.s. does anyone know where I can find video or pictures of decapitated children?  this post really lacks some multi media punch.

p.s.s. i am sure this post has nothing to do with the recurring dream i have of cannibalistic infants and toddlers that attack me every night.

20 documentaries that you must see

1. The Corporation (Watch the YouTube Link HERE!) This is probably the most important of the movies on this list.  A must see film!
2. Enron: The Smartest People in the Room.
3. Gasland
4. Roger and Me
5. The War Room
6. Up Series 
7. Waco: Rules of Engagement
8. Dark Days
9. Grizzly Man
10. Manufacturing Consent
11. Murderball
12. God Grew Tired of Us
13. Super Size Me
14. Jesus Camp.
15. Capturing the Friedmans 
16. The King of Kong
17. A Brief History of Disbelief (YouTube Link)
18. Fahrenheit 911
19. Lost in LA mancha (2002)
20. Marjoe (1972) 
21. The Thin Blue Line
22. The Staircase

My life is supposed to be cooler than this.

Though I think we know better than that.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.4.9

If you come up at me "rapping" about how you're a "grandma" and you "want to fuck me" I might ask you to remove your saggy tits from my shoulder

Last night I got a call from j-dog.  I hung out with him at the "Lucky Devil" and nearly got laid.  I met a nerdy girl who just turned 21, and I bought her a shot.  She ordered the most expensive tequila in the bar.  I guess I should have figured.  Her shot almost cost me more that the 3 small pitchers of bud light I was nursing that evening.

It was okay though.  It was her birthday and I am on my quest to date a nerd girl.

While we waited for her shot she told me she was ex-Mormon.  She said she started drinking when she was 14. Then she told me she could drink me under the table.

"Because I'm a shot girl.  I only do shots."

I told her once I got under the table, "I was a trouble making troll."  Then I told her about my affection for alliteration and she was like, "I'm good at math."

Her parents kicked her out of the church because they thought she was a lesbian.

"Well."  I thought.  "You aren't married and 21."  I told her.  "And you have short hair.  That pretty much makes you a lesbian in the Mormon church."

She agreed.  But she did not apologize for her short hair.

She had some funky glasses that hid her face well.  I think that was a good thing as there may have been some cross-eyes, or Mormon inbreeding going on there.

Still she was intelligent and spoke of jokes about 8 year old boys and the pope and so that caught my attention.

But her cock blocking friends were going to have nothing to do with her talking to me.  They all walked up and dragged her off, only for her to come back a few minutes later and sit down with me.  We talked for like another 20 minutes and just when you thought I could have asked for her number her friends drag her off a second time.

In my youth I would have drank a few beers and waited for her to come back around, or walked outside to get her number, but I am way too old for all that now.  Also, it occurred to me that she was only 21.  Other than molestation, I can't think what to do with a 21 year old girl.  So I bid her adieu and walked home.

Other things that happened that night.

J-dog and I talked cell phones.  J-dog is an interesting cat.  He is the only person I feel comfortable calling me "bro."  He saw me texting and had the best line of the night when he told me to "put that slow phone away"  Okay.  Maybe not the best line of the night.  But I now can't wait for August 20th.  I am getting me an Epic 4g.  No matter what.  If I have to sell everything I own.  I will do it!*

*Not that I have any interested buyers on the enV3 I put up for sell on craigslist.*

Other things that have nothing to do with cell phones.

J-dog's brother got arrested for punching his girlfriend.  Somehow I was made to feel sorry for J-dogs brother.  I guess his girl did not want to press charges, but one of the neighbors saw the punch and called the cops.  The guy is on parole, so it could be messed up for him.  J-dog is afraid his brother is going back to jail for a long ass stint.

The brother went to jail for stealing a million dollars from an old woman.  But it wasn't like he wasn't taking care of the old gal while he was milking her.  He used some of the money he stole for her, and apparently she did not want to press charges against him.

J-dog told me about how his parents spent a hundred grand on lawyers as he sipped from a 20 ounce Whataburger cup full of Jagermeister.

His brother's situation sounds a lot like the girl I felt up 20 years ago in a bar.  I reached up and ran my hand real slow like up her skirt till she turned around and was like, "Hey!  What the FUCK!"

I was like, "Took ya a while to say something."

Her friends looked over at me in disbelief.  But then I got confirmation from the girl.

"I had my hand there for a while, right?"  She let me play with her thigh.  This only emboldened me and I went for the panties.

She nodded at me but was like, "You took it too far."

I guess it was the finger in the panties then?

Fair enough.

Another thing.  The grandma rapper was real.  A sweet 41 year old grandma.  She rapped during the DJ show.  She kept telling me her tits were on me.  I kept thinking "Does that mean you have droopy tits? or are you into me?"

Well she wanted to fuck me.  That's the third woman in the past month I turned down.  So I guess me not get laid is all about me being choosy.  But without a car I can't go back to her place and then never call her again.  She might drop me off at home and then she'd know where I lived.  And crazy-rappin' black grandmas is something you don't take lightly.

I was gonna buy a crap load of drugs from some of the people I met to celebrate my vacation.  But circumstances came up and I was unable to consummate the deal  Also, I am down to 100 dollars in my account.  I can't see me buying drugs and eating out, going to the bookstore and buying a new phone anytime soon.  Even if I start donating plasma at 50 dollars a pop.

I let you know if I am healthy enough to donate plasma.  Also, if I have AIDS or some other blood disease when the tests come back.

I'm in Europe enjoying life without you. Sometimes I think of you, but then I rememeber I don't like you, and I assume your off getting drunk and forgetting to feed your cat

Yesterday, I had one of those conversations with one of those customers who thinks he's funny by regurgitating something offensive he's read off a chain letter e-mail to me.

Customer:

Do you guys participate in the Obama grocery stimulas program?

Me: (pretending to care)

Um,  what's that?

Customer Bigot:

It's where you buy as much groceries as you want, but the guy behind you pays for it.

Me:  (Laughs)

No.  We actually participate in the Republican tax plan.  That's where you buy your groceries and pay taxes on it, so the rich guy standing behind you doesn't have to.

General applause from the peanut gallery for me.

Lesson to you:  Go hard to the hoop, or don't come at all.

An open letter to Verizon Wireless.

The rumor that BIG RED is EVIL is true

There is a rumor floating around the internet that Verizon is going to go to a tiered internet pricing plan for their smart phones.

I can't tell you how upset I am about this.

Q. Why the hell would anyone buy a smart phone if they can't use the damn thing like a smart phone?

A.  They bought an i-phone.

Sorry about that Apple fanboys.  It's not my i-fault.

Reasons I am quitting THE EVIL BIG RED soon.  

Verizon's vaunted network is slow.
Verizon makes its subscribers pay a premium for access to their network on the idea that they don't drop calls and that they deliver a great online experience.

I guess that's why I pay 30 dollars a month to get internet on an Env3.  The Env isn't even a smart phone, but I still get charged like it is.  My Env3 struggles loading content from Verizon's V-Cast.  I'm forced to sit through the machine "buffering" multiple times during most any video I watch.  the web on Verizon is horrible.  It's like I'm holding an i-phone 4 with my hand in some kind of death grip.

Verizon is about to pull a bait and switch.

 I am a premium subscriber who throws his money away on Verizon by paying for crap like V-Cast, unlimited internet, and Verizon's crappy Navigation service.

Verizon forces you to buy the "all you can eat internet" because the only other plan they offer is 10 bucks for 25 mb.  25 mb is shit.  25 mb is like looking at your homepage twice.

I thought I was the kind of customer that Verizon wanted.  A subscriber who buys all the premium services they offer.  But I am not.  The kind of customer Verizon wants is the customer who pays for things, but does not use them.

Verizon.  Why did you get angry when you offer a service like unlimited internet on 3g and then notice that people actually use it?  Let me give you some advice.  Try to think of a buisnes plan that does not involve hoping customers pay for a service, but then choose not to use it.

You are not LA Fitness.  LA Fitness runs a shady business   that hopes you are fat and plan to stay lazy.  They hope you don't want to work out.  They wan't you to sign up and forget about the services you are paying for.

They are shitty company.

Your plan won't work because you provide a service even fat people want to use.

Why didn't you foresee what it would cost to provide your network to people and then charge them for it?  Was that too hard?  Is the price prohibitive?  Then why offer data plans in the first place?  Why go after manufactures and push them to create monster phones with dual core processors?

It's because people don't talk on your networks anymore?  And people who don't use their voice minutes don't want to pay for your overpriced calling plans.

So you play your version of the bait and switch game and charge 20 bucks for texting, even though your cost to send a text is basically free.

Why not follow Virgin mobile and do things like 25 dollar all you can text with only 300 minutes?   Kids eat that shit up.

Why Verizon is evil.

Verizon has the same business plan that your drug dealer has.

First,  get us hooked on unlimited DATA.

Then you pair the unlimited DATA with one of the Incredible Droid smart phones in your line up.  Then you wait for us to go over the modest limits you will set up so you can stick us with massive overcharges for the extra GB's.

(Sounds like what you guys used to do with voice minutes.)

Additional rant about why vErizon is evil.

Your decision to go with tiered data is pushing us back to 1991.  AOL and the $4.oo a minute internet internet pricing was the thing that kept the masses from getting online.  I hated 1991.  Do you remember anything cool about 1991?  That's because there wasn't anything.

All you can eat data is what brought the internet to the forefront of media world.  Going backwards will only cripple technology and the progress of mobile phones.  I want my quad core 2ghtz 2 gb of ram phone dammit!

You are EVIL. So very Evil.

Quit being EVIL.

i discover the sinister truth about synaesthetes

if you're like me and you try to write half-way complicated shit on your blog, you will notice that most of the time you come off as some kind of ass.

the best case scenario is i am steve jobs at some lame press conference explaining to a bunch of nose pickers that they can "have their free case" and "please shut the fuck up about how our phone drops calls."

but most of the time a guy like me doesn't even rise to the level of doucheyness that my analogy suggested.

instead i sound a lot more like an idiot that can't put two sentences together and get them to connect in some meaningful (if offensive manner.)

i'm sure that's why this blog has failed to find an audience -except for the isolated packet of traffic that comes from synaesthetes searching for pictures of miley cyrus's crotch.

it bothers me that 33% of my traffic comes from the boston home for self-taught synaesthetes.  sometimes i get so low that i want to stop blogging.  i don't because i feel that by continuing to blog i am serving some kind of useful purpose i.e. giving synaesthetes something to jerk off to other than the slightly ripe smelling remnants of your child's diaper.

like you i'm sickened by the idea of the physical gymnastics involved in the masturbation fantasies of synaesthetes.

though i doubt you worry, it should bother you that there is an industry attempting to turn the entire world into a bunch of masturbating synaesthetes.

i know what you are saying, "it's just a fad.  it will go away." that's because you don't see patterns the way i do.  if it weren't for me you would have probably never heard of the idea that one day we will be masturbating self taught synaesthetes.

if you don't know what "that" means i can only tell you (from my careful journalistic practices) that it will mean soon when you "think" about the color blue you won't see the color blue.  instead it will just "feel" like miley cyrus' little sister lapped danced against  in some sinister kiddie stripper imitation (and the fact that you will enjoy it makes me want to puke all over you.)



and you won't be against that kind of "thing" anymore since all of your senses are melding together and your sense of smell is tied up into your penis which just brings us back to you stealing little girl's underwear.

i'm mad at you boston area residents that visit my site.

it "bothers me" that you steal little girls underwear.  it bothers me that you beat off to it in mental institutions. you are so successful in life.  you are getting exactly what you want, and i am a giant failure of a human being who can't seem to stop the flood of synaesthesia addicts flooding schools and the internet.

worse i can't seem to type words in an order that makes people want to read them.  and by read my words, i mean i can't put forth anything so compelling, that it forces people to tell their friends who could get me book deals, to give me book deals.

in fact i have trouble gaining followers on blogger or twitter.  mostly people tell me to stop writing so much about the epidemic of synaesthetes and it's subtle influence on  kiddie porn.

i guess people just don't want to read the truth, or imagine the types of people who steal child's underthings to masturbate while attempting to teach their brains that yellow = 4.

but i'm not gonna stop covering this huge story just because your imagination is somehow too constrained to confront the truth.  maybe one day i will be rewarded for my heroic journalism, but i doubt it.  the synaesthetes are taking over the world and i'm down to 30 hits a day on this blog.  soon enough there won't be  a damn person reading this blog and i will be typing all this for those that survive the coming holocaust.

a holocaust of child panty sniffing by self taught synaesthetes the likes of which the world has never seen.

The Self Help Guide to Overcomming Anxiety: or how i stopped worrying and learned to love the dread

* you should read this before reading this post.  then all the shit i left out will make more sense.*

the gas station by my house sells caffeinated gum and something called red tilt malt liquor.   if you come looking for me, it might be best for you to try the gas station before knocking on my door, as i buy a lot of that shit because that is the shit that keep me going though the dread and anxiety of living in this post-modern nightmare that we call call "now."

now if you are like most people you just read that i drink malt liquor, chew caffeinated gum, and i talk a lot about anxiety, so then you started diagnosing me with some kind of depression, or drug problem.  a few of you may have worried that i was some kind of hipster.  note: i only write for the 2 people who actually worried for a second that i was a hipster.

don't you fucking worry though, i'm not a hipster.  i'm an old fashioned nerd.  i'm just broke and tired of drinking bud light.   but i'm too poor for sam adams. 

now for those of you who are worried that, "i think a lot about dread" let me try and ease your christian fears a bit.

you might worry that i'm a nihilist without understanding the christian roots of existentialism.  (yes, i just played switcheroo but hold on a bit and i will school yer ass, k?)

first, you are right about me being a nihilist.  but don't get ahead of yourself.  getting ahead of yourself would be like "but you don't fucking believe in anything-how can you believe in nothing?"

like most uneducated people i use my own definition of nihilism.  first a bit of background that you will all agree with me.  humans are the only animals that go around acting like their very existence is some kind of problem that needs to be figured out.

so the main "problem" of being human is figuring out just what exactly it means to be "human."  Agreed?  you better agree asshole, or just cut and fucking run back to mommy and the robed priest that likes to tickle your pickle before mass.

so let's get back to my definition. it goes something like nihilism simply means that all the old fashioned ways of  finding meaning no longer work.  things like belonging to your tribe, your religion, your nation no longer ground you to your being.

in other words, you can be religious, but how many people do you know wear black Nike sneakers and gulp sleeping pills down before suffocating themselves by wrapping a plastic bag over their heads?  i think the answer is 34.  but i didn't Google that. so who knows.

now 12 step helpers want to come in and solve the crisis of modernity by offering you up solutions like getting a higher power.

i wonder if the founder of AA knew anything about kierkegaard.  kierkegaard said all we needed to get over life was to get a "defining commitment."*

*(a defining commitment is just like submission to a higher power i won't go into why here i won't go into all the parallels of how k. and 12 step programs are the same, but let's just say that they both think that your "higher power" could be a door knob.)

a door knob.  you see the only way you can get away from dread is by positing something outside of yourself that you can base your life on.  it could be the god-man (k wants us to be scarily committed to him.)  it could be staying sober.  it could be making money.  but we won't find the solution in the distraction of every day life.

personally i don't like the idea that 12 step followers propose. you know how you get over dread? you get over dread by getting over it.  i'm not going to try a leap into faith into something that i know is absurd just so that i can run away from the contradictions of the human psyche (the whole what's the point thingy) by escaping myself and pointing my life in the direction of something outside my self.

i'm for dealing with the self.  even if that means living in resignation.  even if that means living in dread, anxiety, anomie, and nihilism.

i'd rather be myself.

just like you don't worry about being over 40 and coming off as desperate as hell for attention next to your prettier friend at the bar (yet still found the will to diss 3 douche bags who figured you were an easy score) and you earned mad props from me and my friend when you didn't even try and cock block your friend when it looked liked she was gonna get laid before you.  now that's "living" with purposelessness.

things we learned today:

1. we never get to resolve the contradiction of being human
2. that's why humans live in despair
3. despair can be good because it lets us know we are human
4. paradoxically knowing that we are human drives us further into despair 
5. resignation to the impossibility of resolving contradiction is the only "solution" to suicide

What will we learn next?

nietzsche and kierkegaard had similar ideas about the possibility that we could overcome the crisis identified by k.  both were wrong.  i will show that the pessimism of schopenhauer was correct (although his prescription of aesthetic abandonment was wrong- which is the same thing as distraction- a concept loathed by k.) 

i will also show that the crises humanity faces ends with our mutual destruction (by either the typical ways i.e. war, famine etc.) or by replacement with non-human entities -you call them robots- who themselves will say they are simply the synthesis of the contradiction of humanity.  they are totally wrong and are non-human.  a simple task to show they are non-human is to show they do not live in despair.

Sickness unto death: or when the cure is worse than the disease

drinking in the middle of the day is fun.  you should try it sometime unless your idea of fun is doing crossword puzzles or making afghans for your church group.

drinking during the day feels sneaky.  the way looking up a girl's skirt when she bends to place her bike on the bus rack makes you feel dirty until she sits down on the curb in her tiny shirt-dress and lights up a smoke and stairs straight out at you and stretches out her tanned legs and allows the breeze to blow up her skirt giving you a peek at her undies.  then you feel less creepy than the girl flashing you in the shirt dress.

girls and shirt dresses  maybe the second best thing about summer.  the first must be sangria wine.  even if that sangria has been sitting in your refrigerator for 3 days with the cap slightly unscrewed.  the sangria still has enough carbonation to taste fresh and fruity.   i guess boone's knows what they are doing.

i'm gonna drink a lot of stuff other than beer tonight.  i am thinking TILT malt liquor again.  12% beast of an alcoholic drink.  maybe i will get real loaded before i go to the lucky devil and order a few 45 cent wings.  the lucky devil makes great wings/you'd never guess they make decent cuisine here on account of the cockroaches and general lackadaisicaliness of the  employees (sometimes you order a dozen wings and they don';t get made but the bartender is sweating so much that you decide not to ask him to turn on the fryer) also the disturbing clientele would suggest you will be served food that a trucker would belch at eating.

but you'd be wrong.  of course you are always wrong about most things.  other than green pant suits are in style again and honda accords make wonderfully dependent automobiles.

back to me getting drunk

i'm thinking about getting a few of those caffeinated chewing gum and drinking a few TILTS and when sufficiently buzzed then getting my beer on.    

what about you guys?  does beer do it anymore?  don't you need to drink the hard stuff, wine, or lace your weed with something to get off to it anymore?

i wished i had something dangerous like angel dust.  i'd do it! i would.

i don't think i need friends.  i shun contact.  it's like i already know you are going to bore the fuck out of me.  i know i look ridiculous to you but thats because you only see me one-sided.  like the 17 year old courtesy clerks that tells me that he is smarter than me. i called the dumpy motherfucker half-way smart (trying like i always do to make you feel better) and he looked at me "like what does that make you?"

that little whiney bitch ain't even heard of Hegel, so "why should i even give a fuck?"  you ask.  well i am getting dumber by the minute and all these fuckers are climbing on my back.  the fucktards are gaining on me.  i'm losing anther race.  i'm gonna have to keep lowering me expectations until i'm running around with crackheads and homeless people bragging that my razor blade still works.  "i'll cut your fucking throat with it too!"

i'm confused.  i kinda want to hang out, but mostly i want to drink and feel the release of my shit as it slips past my plastic undergarments and having you nearby reminds me that i'm not supposed to wearing plastic undergarments yet.

it's a miracle you pass yourself off as normal.  course all you "norms" are full of shit.  most of you so fucked up in your own heads, so full of delusional thinking, so looking at the world through your rose colored glasses, that you shun me for the very fact that i let you get a peak at the real world.  i burst through your moronic thinking like water buffalo's turd through my colostomy bag.

i was gonna keep this shit short so that you new readers would take a chance and read something.  but lets face it.  who gives a fuck?

what did we learn today?

1. distraction allows us to forget that we human
2. it's only "OK" to live in distraction if you have first demonstrated that you are conscious that you are living in  despair
3. distraction can be necessary when we are having trouble living in resignation 
4. you have always been in despair
5. once you know you are in despair, you will always be in despair
6. despair is a structural component of human life
7. you can pretend to be happy while in despair
8. some of you are unaware that you are in despair -but you  are still in despair
9. despair is not something you choose
10. you cannot leave despair
11. are you happy?  do you disagree that you have ever tasted despair?  then you are not fully human.  you have no self.  you may get to die that way.  as unconscious as a shell fish. 

i need to get out and do something

i need to get out and do something, i've been like stuck in this goddamn condo for what seems like months or something.

i need to "mack" on chicks.  i need to walk straight up to a chick and deliver a classic line about how like my, "my shit is so funny it's like you are terri schivo and my intelligence is a feed tube and im pumping you full of nutrition and you are like possibly dead except for the occasional eye movement which may or may n0t have anything to do with a concious mind in there."

and

"how am i doing? prolly not well, huh?  but don't show it or kick me to the curb too quickly because my friends said this line would never work and we BOTH know it ain't gonna work---but FUCK them for knowing that it won't work and telln me it won't work..."

"it's like who gets to make them know how shit goes down.  why we gotta let the fucking standard shit work only?  why not sit down and drink a beer with a possible schizophrenic?  what could possibly happen?"

I think i menti0ned rape jokes and how chicks (no matter how fucking progressive a girl is she  just never gets rape jokes and how they are "never funny" and all that so "here i am trying to get you with a rape joke and terri schivo jokes and feeding tube jokes that make you seem possibly like an invalid" which is i think is where i went with the rape jokes and then i think it was around that time that you finally got fed up with all raping, feed tube (could be viewed as my cock in your mouth) jokes and picked your floral covered dress off the bench and went back inside and pointed at me like i'm some kind of creeper--- when all you are is some kind of prissy little bitch that never fucks ugly dudes (which by the way is just exactly the kind of women that gets raped, so now i understand your concern- you see at the time i had no idea you were a prissy little cunt- i thought you were a hipster scene girl, or maybe emo and nerdy and liked computerz and liked to talk about the android third party market and how you'd be upset if you were "on ATT" and could not download a fabtastic app like skype just cuz it wasn't approved by google.

But fuck me. 

one fuckn joke about rape and im dead to you.  one little smack talk about regurgitating your intestines with my penis because you were in need of some intellectual redress and you get pissy fucking tears in you eyes like i'm the kind of guy who spens his time downloading videos of puppies getting boiled alive on youtube

im not like that.  certainly i watch said videos and laugh, but lets face it a lot of kids do that these days.  i just don't waste my time downloading that shit cuz other people do that for me.

speaking of your panties.  don't wear such a see through skirt if you don't want me talkin' about your underwear.. i was just curious if you knew i could see through your skirt as i saw through it from like 30 feet away with a simple glance. "not even trying" as i told u.  did not want to.  i got japanese porn for that.  i don't need to creeper it with you even if i am "peeking on e"

"the drug is not sexual"

i told that to the bouncer.  i told that to the cop.  i told that to your sister after you got up to go get them both.  i think everyone knows that e is not sexual so i was not assaulting you with my eyes

"what the fuck does that even mean?"

like i told yer sister, "its obvious she wants me to look at her panties and nipples, cuz she ain't wearing any fucking underwear and she is wearing a very sheer outfit."

that does not make me rush limbaugh or mel gibson.  i am not a racist.  i am not saying that the only reason obama is president is he is black.


in reality i wish i was black.  it would make a hell of a lot of things easier on me.  like playing basketball, and picking up on white girls with big asses.  not that i really want to do either of those things.  but you get my point.  black people have it so easy these days with food stamps and welfare and a black president also the fact that if i was black i'd know what i'd want for dinner every day.

fried chicken & waffles.  orange crush soda. aunt jemima anything.

why yes that is a side of kool aid.

and knowing what's for dinner solves 56% of life's problems.