Why are you reading about me on the Internet?

Sometimes I like mayo on sandwiches.  But only on sub sandwiches, not on regular bread sandwiches. And not a lot of mayo, just a little. Too much mayo ruins anything.

I'm not telling you this because I want you to tell me how much mayo you like on your sandwiches.  I don't care if you like mayo, or mustard.

 I don't care if you like sandwiches at all.

Suicidal Musings:Towards a Theory of the Social Psychology of Poverty

I poured a glass of coke into a plastic 16 oz red cup that is generally reserved for parties by teens and college students.  It was actually my second glass.  The first coke is my coffee and the second is my breakfast.

Winter is upon us.  Outside it's cloudy, dark and dreary.  It's only 3, but looks like it's 7.

I just got a call that told me that my insurance has been cancelled and that I will need to purchase COBRA insurance.  I am sure that will be a huge cost.  My nurse that follows my case was the person that called.  Not my insurance company.  They were just not going to tell me apparently.  I'm calling them tomorrow to find out what's going on.

My debit card is expired which is good news.  It will cancel the paper subscription I have tried to cancel for over a year.

After my second coke I decided to go the store to purchase flour tortillas.  I buy the kind that are paper thin.  They expire on the 7th which means I will be eating lots of tortillas.  If you are from the north or simply don't have a lot of experience purchasing tortillas, let me tell you how.  Don't but the ones that are thick like cakes buy as thin as possible.  Thick tortillas are terrible and inauthentic. Abuelita would never make them so.

The line was long at Food City.  Someone had food stamps, but forgot their cash and had to put back laundry soap.  I waited for 15 minutes.  I did not have a basket and the weight of my few items grew heavy because  the chemotherapy and my inactivity has reduced my strength considerably.

Next I visited the Family Dollar Store.  I need a yellow marker for the online Marxist course I am taking.  Also a group of notebooks.  I get over charged for the college ruled paper but don't make a fuss.

The store plays Lorde's Royals in between telling you that shoplifting is a crime.  They have cameras watching and encourage you to say something if you see something.

Two groups of crack/meth addicts walk in.  Among the first group one blond woman in her late 30's or early 40's has a nice body.  Kept trim by her addiction I consider whether I would give her money.  Luckily I jerked off last night and my withered nutsack is only vaguely interested in getting released.  Money problems prevent me from spending on prostitution as well. I have no problem with paying for sex morally.  I think it empowers women. Prostitution is like an ancient form of Katy Perry.  Girl Power and shit.

Everyone at the Family Dollar store is poor.  Most do not try and hide it.  The checkout girl has rat hair swept up in a loose ponytail.  She offers a weary smile.  I think it hides an invitation,  Like I'm cute of something.  I can hear the plastic tubing of my TAC line rustling under my shirt.

I haven't bathed this week and my shirt has some kind of oil stain on it.  But I don't look any different from anyone else.  Most people in the store are out of fashion.  They wear ill fitting clothes,  They can't afford to go to laundromat.

Why must everyone look so sad?  Why must they look so poor?  Why are they drug addicts, immigrants, and homeless?

Why I am here? I guess I am one of them.  This idea makes me sadder.  I haven't had any pain pills or Xanax to counter their effects today.   I am susceptible to glomming onto their milieu.

Fuck it.  After I get my change I walk back to my car.

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.

Meet me naked in your bathroom, and I just might slit your throat.

"What are you doing here?"  She asked over the roar of the shower.

There was a surprise in her eyes, a look in them that hinted that something was up.

"I wanted to see you." I said.  "That's all."

I liked the way the water bounced off her head and splashed onto the ceiling.  Sticking there in contraveance to the laws of gravity.  Maybe something Spock could have explained.

"I wanna see you naked."  I explained. I stared directly at her face.  But my thoughts fondled her body.

She laughed, but it was forced. "You've seen me naked before."

"I know."  I agreed. She didn't understand.  But that was okay.

"But I wanted to see you."

I could have winked at her, or smiled and made things better.  Made us both forget everything.  But for some reason I couldn't do that.  Whatever depth of sympathy or empathy that I normally can summon when I need to wasn't there.

I didn't care if it made her uncomfortable for me to watch her rub soap on her tits.  I made sure that my look conveyed exactly what I wanted it to.  I was going to look at you naked.  Get over it.  You're mine. I get to look at you naked.

Let the water run down the drain.  Let me stand here awkwardly leaning into the shower with the curtain pushed aside. Watch the water whirlpool away. See your lips tremble just a bit.  See you scrub your scalp with a vengeance.

See you thinking thoughts. Why don't I go away? Why do I keep looking at you?  What do I know?

I know everything.  What do you think?  You think things get past me?  I'm not 18.  I'm not that stupid little boy anymore.  Nothing gets past me.

"I'm going to whistle while I work!"  I said that to her.  Then I smiled at her.  So that she'd know there was something wrong.

Gives me the sleep disorder look.  That's why she was always awake. 12:30, 3:30, 4:45.  No matter what time I woke at night.  Sometimes she just stared over at me like a mannequin.  Other times she accuse me, "What!" She'd demand.

"Nothing."  I'd say.  "I was just wondering if you were awake."

"Of course I'm awake.  What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?"

Back then I would mumble something like, "Yelling at me."  And roll over and pretend to sleep. I could feel the heat coming out of her eyes as they burned their way into my subconscious.

I suppose I should have reached back and slapped her.  Gone all Alpha Male.  She always responded to that kind of shit.  But that would have just gotten me angrier.  The fact that she wanted me to dominate her did not make me want to dominate her more.  It made me lose all respect for her.  It made me feel no remorse.  It made me think of her as sub-human.

A pussy-ass Alpha Male needs to dominate as much as a sub-human needs to be dominated.  But that kind of thinking is Pre-Nietzsche.  You should really be BEYOND all that.

but fuck that

She really never was my equal.  Not even in my beta days.  When I couldn't get pussy to save the world.  When the acne butchered my face and vomited acid.  I still have the scars.  But I won't dwell there.

I shut the curtain and began to shave.  My sudden movement caught her off guard because I heard a soft thud which sounded like the conditioner bottle fell and was cushioned by landing on her foot.  She let out a soft curse which made me laugh.

"Asshole!"

That's the ticket my dear.  I'm the asshole.  And this is all my fault.  You never led me on.  You never fucked me over.  You aren't the biggest slut in slutland@slutopia fucking dildos and storing the cream cheese that excretes from your vagina in the back trunks of Stutevilles just waiting for that shit to turn into something you can sell to the willing Mexican boys to suck down stuffed inside jalapenos.

Not FUCKING you.  Let's get that shit straight.  Shall we?

It can read your mind.

When the Government perfects mind reading it's going to be in for a big disappointment.  If you think people with kitten blogs think a lot about kittens, and not a lot about Al Qaeda, then you'd be right.



But the Government isn't likely to take that path.  It's not going to see innocence where there is ambiguity.

I had a Gentleman come into the store today.  He asked me for a package of Postage Stamps.

"Stamps!"

I am usually addressed in this manner.  Not: "Hello, Fine, Sir!"

No.  Usually I am addressed from behind.  The person will not be in my line.  They will be six feet away.  They will be screaming in monosyllabic format.

STAMPS  STAMPS  STAMPS

I like to pretend that I don't understand what I am being told when I am spoken to in this manner.

"Stamps?"  I ask.  Then I shuffle a bemused look at the fellow.  I cock my head to the side.  I look at them earnestly. I allow a slight deepening to set into my eyes.

"Would you like to purchase some STAMPS?"

The fellow bounded over to me, covering the six feet between us in a mear nanosecond.  He told me that he needed stamps because he had to send out for his passport.

"I sent them my last passport in a plastic bag, because it was covered in cat piss."

I see.

"But the STATE DEPARTMENT didn't understand why I needed a new passport--EVEN THOUGH my last passport was covered in CAT PISS."

"So I wrote them a five page letter discussing how in my latest trip to Africa I decided to become a Cougar.  And when one becomes a cougar, one leaves all the 2 legged things of the world behind.  To gain initiation in to the four legged world ONE NEEDS to have the COUGARS piss all over ALL OF YOUR STUFF and ALL OF YOUR STUFF includes my PASSPORT."

I give him the book of stamps, I think a book of stamps is exactly what the doctor has ordered.

I don't want to rape you song lyrics

I don't wanna rape you
(but at least you died in my arms)
I don't wanna rape you
(be still the beating of your heart)
Never tried to hate you
But you never gave us a start

My new blog

Go HERE to see the my new blog on the Surveillance State.  I will be posting there much more regularly than I post here.  At least until I give up on that too!

The myth of Marx and capital inconsistencies

Told ya so

I might be the only person in the world not surprised by revelations that the government has been snooping on you. Been telling you for years. Who's the conspiracy theorist now?

Just live blogging my life away

It's Memorial Day, which means that you get another day of freedom without having to actually do anything to defend it.

It's okay. All those poor people and minorities, and white trash you love to make fun of for loving they country will be out there risking they lives & you can just go back to eating grilled salmon.

You can't even eat hamburgers on this American holiday you fucking jerk.

Not like me. I eat hamburgers every day, because I love my country. Even if one day you see me on the news getting accused of blowing shit up. We both know you guys had it coming, and everything I do is for the good of society in the long term.

It's tuff being a hero that's misunderestimated, but that's my lot, and I'm not one to to dwell on the inevitable.

I think it's time to get started. To start the heavy lifting. But we will see. We will see.

What have we learned?

Here's what we know.

We must be the one's in charge. The government doesn't have sole legitimacy to use force. Maybe we should all be learning to build bombs.

Those crazy Russian Muslims understand one thing correctly, we live in a decadent society. Some days the only reason I get off the toilet and stop playing with Mr. Tablet and cell phone is that I feel like eating double cheese burgers from Whataburger!

Somebody should pay for that!

MOSTLY I think it should be college aged girls who don't seem to want to give me the time of day.

I can't understand why. I'm down to 206 lbs. Sure, I got out of breath just typing this. But I'm doing what I can. Like today, I just cashed in my aluminum cans. Made $8! I could totally take a young lady to share a fast food meal with me. And after giving me the hymlic we could watch Netflix, if she's got her parents password, and her brother's done streaming Extreme Coupon shows.

So buck up Americans! It's not all bad outside. Buy some nitrous, order a few fireworks. Get political. Spread the fire. And get me laid.

like an old friend with no where to stay

anxiety is back, forgetting that i am working so hard to keep it at bay.  staying off of drugs, limiting my alcohol intake.  no beers whatsoever.

the salts go on my feet and absorb into the cavities, pressing inside me

much like our shared dignity on this planet

you can shake your leg, and stare at the red plastic tumbler and take advice from the high and mighty.  everything is self-created.  therefore we have only a subjective corner to cry in.

>b/42
>b/sorta chubby, but not too fat
get into argument over meaning of life
>sound like schizoid.
get told to create meaning
go ahead she says, "it's easy once you stop taking the easy way out."
decide to tug on toenail instead
watch puss drip out
think about making sausage for breakfast
b 3:20 in the pm
make sausage and eggs in tortilla with cheese
delicious

Things get worse, I learn the prognosis is bad

So, I finally went the doctor on Friday. Showed them my toe. Doctor flips out. Why did you do this to yourself? Did you not have insurance?

"Oh my god! Oh, my god!" He stammered while crunching down on to the floor for a better look.

"We'll need an MRI,  X-ray, start him on Bactrim!"

All the nurses just sat there while he waited for my excuse, why did I do this?

I told him I was afraid of doctors. Truth is, three years ago I had no insurance, didn't think I could afford it. Not sure I can now. Then the whole thing just got embarrassing. I knew I'd get the reaction I got. What's a man to do?

I'll need six weeks of intravenous antibiotics if I have a bone infection or I could lose the toe. Almost would prefer being toeless after reading about intravenous antibiotics and the possibilty of going septic. That shit is truly scary. My MRI is scheduled on Friday, but the X-rays didn't look good.

About to take the first antibiotics, we all know how much I hate them. My stomach and bowels are already giving me such trouble. This will only make things worse. Hopefully, we find out that there is no bone infection, but three years of waiting? Impossible I'd say. There will be an infection, I never get truly lucky.

Don't let it get you down

i woke up with only thirty minutes to spare.  my alarm didn't go off. i set the alarm fine.  it just seems some times my phone doesn't like to do it's job.  which  i guess is fine by me, because frankly speaking i don't much care to do my job all the time either, and i don't really see the reason to discriminate against inanimate objects the way you people fetishisizers do.

not that most of you care about suffering.  at least people suffering.  you are more likely to cry your hearts out at a sad puppy dying story, than to give a moments thought to your fellow man.

let me explain another way that even your emotionally defunct brain can recognize.  what's sadder a baby dying or a german sheppard?  what if the baby accidentally pulls a string that drops an anvil onto the baby who then crushes the puppy.  who do you cry for?  the puppy, right?

that's the definition of mental illness.

buy i digress.

i got up late today. so i took a three minute shower.   a three minute shower consists of shampooing you hair and washing most of your body parts with one of those pink wire sponges that have replaced washcloths.  i wonder whatever happened to the washcloth makers, did they get jobs in factories where they make wire brushes?  or did they have too much disdain for wire sponge makers, secretly knowing that their product, while overlooked now by the market, was truly the better material and body cleaner.  my secret hope is they walked out on those evil wire sponge makers and left the city to form some kind of commune where people drink unpasteurized milk and used cotton to bathe themselves.

work was uneventful, save for an argument between my ex-internet gf and a female friend from work.  it got ugly at one point with erin shouting that she didn't give a fuck what tarri said, "that we are talkin and tell her to shut the fuck up."

erin likes to talk like she's a gangster but she reminds me of the actress Jamie Lynn Sigler's character from men with kids, a tv show that may be on the air for a decade, so we really ought to just come to terms with it. I mean tempest bledsoe is proving she can be a comedic actress, and the catchy theme song, and cushy timeslot mean we have plenty of time to really get in to the meat of the characters of this show.

after work i took the new roommate to the local comic store where we saw groups of nerds playing some updated game of dungeons and dragons.  the group included a few of those nerdy girls that suddenly pretend to be into looting and dragon slaying and coming up with ways to get out of predicaments like, "did anyone try shooting the horse?" which just seems plain mean to me and i don't even like animals.

all these girls get jobs at the renascence fair.  most of em have the acting bug.  many of them don't take showers.  but i would have loved them in my teen years when women wouldn't look at me.  not that they do now, unless it is to cry in fear of my massive ghetto booty.

the girls at the ice cream parlor we visited after where sure looking lecherously at me, i bet it's not often a middle aged man in an aging volvo drives up in the rain with one working windshield wiper while a 22 year old girl gets out and pays for his double large oreo blaster ice cream with the waffle bowl.  those girls were super jealous and jesse the roommate was furious her extra large scoop of ice cream was half the size of mine.  jesse was on her period and if she wasn't bullied by the idea of getting on birth control and leaving her period and condoms stuck to the tile floor of the restroom then we'd have had a throw down.

now i'm back home.  second half of a valium and two beers later i'll be going to sleep soon.  i won't be dreaming of you. but then again, maybe i will. or maybe that's just half crazy sauce.

friday is the day i go to the doctor, get my poison toenail removed, maybe even the gangrene if it hasn't set in too much. i might just keep ya posted.  seems like i have maybe attracted a few new readers.  the light at the tunnel is always there.  just worry it's a train and gonna kill me.  but even then, put's me out of my misery.

All I've got is you, dear diary

I'm sitting on the pot churning out four or five green poops a day.  A lot of the poop just sits in my asshole.  Not quite out, not quite in.  You gotta really dig in and scrape that shit out, even with baby wipes.  This ain't pretty.

Scary thing is I am having flashbacks again.  I think my anxiety is back.  Something fierce today.  Feel like a cat chasing it's tail.  My brain feels fuzzy again.  I'm getting all those old feelings and  I am not sure why.

I have abstained from synthetic marijuana for at least a couple of weeks.  I'm not sure how long. But I do sometimes long for a re-dose   It makes jerking off so much fun, you sometimes forget all the side effects.  But I am staying strong.  Today has taught me that I better stay away from that shit.

I'm even considering giving up beer.  Going totally clean.  I think my diabetes is raging full.  Also, I am losing all the hair on my legs and this is concerning me.  I am going to the doctor Friday   I can't handle all the anxiety again.  My feet and toes are numb.  And I think I have psoriasis.  I think that is what is causing the hair loss, either that or the diabetes is causing my skin to toughen and redden.

My infected toe still is infected.  I think it's been three years.  I'm going to the doctor on Friday.  I will get it looked at, and this means antibiotics,  which scare the shit out of me.  One of my phobias now.  But the toe needs to get healed.  I am worried about necrosis.  I know I let that go too long.  Once I get it fixed (I hope it can get fixed!) then maybe we can find out why my hair is falling out, and why what that swelling in my knee is.

My leg is giving me pain, I just hope it all has to do with how my body has to compensate for how I walk with the ingrown toe nail, and once that is gone then I will get back to normal.  But who knows?

Seizure like symptoms in my head.  Chest pains, and the startle reflex is back.  I can't wear socks because my feet are swelling.  It must be the beer.  Got to cut out all the carbs, gotta stop drinking every night.  I'm going to stop drinking all together for awhile.

Of course that don't fix everything.  I still ain't got much reason for living.  Still I just need the dread to go away.  Need to stop giving me self something to worry about.

I took a Vicodin.  7.5 mg.  Just to ease the anxiety not for any fun.  A few weeks back I took two tens and threw up and got so sick that I swore off pain pills for life.  And if the anxiety wasn't so bad today I wouldn't have taken this pill.  But it has helped a bit, though not enough.

Writing here may help a little, distract me.  Even though I am only writing about the anxiety.  We'll see I guess.

What I don't understand is why it's all back.  No weed, no spice, no MDMA, no pills.  Then today BAM.  I mean the symptoms had begun to appear a little earlier.  The creep crawls in the brain, AKA the brain zaps.  Feels like I am detoxing from Effexor or E.  But no, just Spice.  I wonder why the two are connected in my brain?   I wonder when all this will ever stop.  Why can't I just be normal again?

That seems like it may be too much to ask, though I thought I was getting better.  The first week or so after I stopped the spice I felt improvement. Now I feel like shit.  Not to mention i have hay fever, and that flu that's been going around.  Got it twice.

i'm itchy now.  that's the vike.  feeling a bit less anxious.  but still way too nervous.  way too worried.  sure hope i go the doctor.  thought about it earlier today.  started to cry, so shameful, so embarrassing. sure hope i can afford to go.  i hope it don't cost a thousand dollars or more.  if  i need surgery it will, maybe i will just get antibiotics and then the y peel off the toenail.  might not even be a big charge for that.  won't i feel foolish again?  could have walked normal 3 years ago, gone swimming, hiked, worked out...RUN.  I could run, play basketball.

we'll see.  we'll see. dry mouth, just watched the walking dead.  proof that you can still watch tv without messing with your phone for one hour still.  if you want:

maybe the alcohol is fucking up my arteries, hardening them and shit, maybe that's why i ain't getting any blood flow.  saw something on reddit about a guy who drank too much and the necrosis that set in. scared the jesus in me, i'm gonna stop drinking.

what's left to live for then?

not too sure. beer is keeping me sane.  keeping me in the game.  maybe i can start reading again.  who knows?  just read a book.  one at a time. not a million links on the internet.  put my attention and affection into one thing.

or maybe i just need a woman? haha what a laugh that is!

I'm not dead yet.

I'm not sure how I am still alive. God works in mysterious ways. He must be setting me up for something big. I guess that's why he's got me smoking artificial marijuana.

I'm smoking at least two pounds a day. And they say spice is filled with heavy chemicals: lead, mercury, compounds I can't pronounce.

I'm not worried though, I seem ok. Sure, I am a bit forgetful. Sure I get confused easily. I do the opposite of what I intend sometimes.

But who doesn't, right? Also, the universe has this funny way of getting you to do what it wants, even if you are against the idea.

I for sure never wanted to be 42 and working at a grocery store, huffing gasoline, smoking spice, drinking four 30 packs a week just to cover up the pain of existence.

But life is suffering, at least that's what the buhdda said, and he's a pretty smart guy.

Absence makes the heart grow dickish

A Recap of my Thanksgiving

I spent Thanksgiving alone.  I did not eat turkey.  I drank 15 beers.

Then I decided to go to a bar around 9:45.  Got told it was closing at 10.  There was one woman left. She went home with a man 20 years older than me. 

The next day I pooped blood.

So you know that guy that killed his girlfriend by shooting her a few times, the guy that played for the Kansas City Chiefs?  I think I know why that guy shot her.

It's basically like this:  Once you have sex with a really hot chick, 

YOU
WIN.

Nothing really left in life.  You've accomplished everything you ever needed to do.  So shoot her, kill yourself.  Tell your friends how helpful they were in getting you to the point that you could fuck hot chicks.

Let the baby live, because evolution is STRONG.

Miss me? 

A letter to the giant titted women of the world.

There is this chick with giant fucking tits that I want to fuck.  Not that you'd know she has giant tits, because she is always wearing shirts that hide those giant tits from me.  Chicks with giant tits are always doing that, covering up their tits.  I guess they have like  some "I've got giant tits!" complex about it.

So what.  So you've got big giant tits.  It's okay.  God blessed you with something wonderful.  A couple of fun bags for the whole world to see.  Don't you understand?  Don't you understand how much pleasure and fun you have the potential to give to the world? Holding back on giving that kind of pleasure to the world is a form of evil.  Maybe not Hitler fucking evil, but evil nonetheless.

I feel like I need to mention that I just lied to you a few seconds ago. When I stated that there was one girl with giant tits that I wanted to fuck.  It's not true.  Actually there are a lot of girls with giant tits that I want to fuck.  A lot.  Almost all of them.  Some of them are even ugly.

I e-mailed one of the ugly girls.  I got drunk one night after celebrating at a friends birthday party.  I got wicked drunk.  Drank for hours.  But that wasn't enough for me.  Hardly ever is these days.  So after the party I drove over to the 24 hour liquor store and picked out a five dollar pipe and bought a 2 thimble sized canisters of spice, the synthetic weed drug.

I took the 2 canisters home and decided to try the strawberry version of spice.  I inhaled a bit and got almost immediately high.  So I took a hold of my lighter and puffed a few more times.  I got even higher.  A weird spaced out high that is a lot like mushrooms and weed.  But also feels a lot like crack or bath salts.

Of course every time I get that high I watch porn.  Not regular porn.  Where guys fuck girls or what not.  But jerk off encouragement porn.  The kind of porn where girls talk to you, tell you how you should jerk off.  How hot it makes them watching you jerk it to them. That kind of stuff.

On Spice that jerk off encouragement porn will fuck you up.  You won't be able to distinguish the voices you hear on the video from reality.  It will FEEL like they actually are there telling you to stroke your cock and how great your dick is, or in my case they tell me how inadequate I am.  But that's that the kind of porn that I like.

So I jerk off to the porn girls telling me to jerk off for a couple of hours.  I keep getting really close to orgasm, but I hold off.  There is a great sense of euphoria.  I feel like I'm on speed.  I feel like I am on E.  Weird shit.

Suddenly, for some reason I think about getting laid for real.  I look down at my phone and decide to look through some of the dating applications that I have installed.

I click through this one ghetto app that is written in java script running on HTML5.  It's neon pink and super slow.  But I find some fat, ugly chick has starred me, which means she wants to fuck me.

Normally there is no way I would let this chick fuck me.  But today I am so fucking horny that I don't care.  I decide I am going to get drunk when I meet her. After I get her to like me I am going to smoke some spice and fuck her.

On spice I will be crazy.  I will make her do shit that will humiliate her, or scare the shit out of her.  Maybe scare the shit out of me.  Real crazy shit like punching myself in the balls.  Knife play.  Chocking bitches out.  Having them choke me out.  This bitch is going to be sorry she ever laid eyes on me.  Either that or she is going to be so fucking happy that a man finally understands her that she will be willing to do whatever it takes to keep me.

I'm suddenly down for that. For being with a bitch that I don't want to be with in public.  For taking her to swinger clubs.  To make her suck another man's in front of me.  All of which probably sounds crazy to you.  But it's normal to me and a few other people.

I wonder if those people who think of that shit as normal are as crazed as I am when I get high on Spice.  Do their brains tingle?  Do they hear voices?  Do they get anxiety?  What's if feel like to be that crazy normally?

That friend who had the birthday had a friend who was down for this kind of shit.  She told me how her ex boyfriend was a freak.  She said that no matter what kind of shit I had done, this guy was way freakier.  She told me how he liked to make her suck other men's cocks.  How he wanted her to call him "Amber" and he'd wear female panties.

I never told her how I took spice and jerked off.  How once after smoking spice I started smelling shoes.  How the foul smell turned me on all of sudden.  How I wanted to lick the inside of the shoes. Real freaky shit like that.  How I thought the idea of her calling me Sarah was great.  How I would love the opportunity to watch her fuck other men as I jerked off.   Maybe even while smoking spice.  That would probably send me to overdrive.  I'm not sure I could handle that.

But this girl is an ex stripper.  Probably not that interested in me.  Though she hugged me before she left.  Hugged me from behind.  A long hard hug like you would give to a good friend that you missed, or maybe your boyfriend.  She pressed her tiny breasts into me.  I loved every second of it.  I hope she wants to come out to Taco Tuesday and get drunk with me next Tuesday.

I think I am going to invite her.  Or maybe that fat fuck that starred me on the phone dating site.  Either way, I should get with a real chick soon.  If I don't get laid I may go crazy.  I might start fucking around on spice all day long, buy a gun or something.  I have a few hundred dollars stacked away.  As long as my car keeps running.  As long as it starts.  I won't have to spend anymore money there.  IF SO I will have money for spice, for playing pool with ex strippers, and for fucking ugly women.

Strange.  I feel like I have something to live for after all.  Thanks Big Tits. Thanks Ugly Tits.  I love you all.  

The good, bad, and the ugly

Like most people I have my good and bad days. More often bad than good, but that's probably because of my temperament, or my disposition,  depression, bi-polarism, the fluctuating mania, anddrug use along with the general wear and tear that 50 years of life can put on a man. After a while it adds up on you, and sometimes I let it get me down. Not that my life is truly all that "bad." It's not like I'm a refuge in Ukraine.

So you see things really aren't that bad. I guess they are just bad in the 'modern sense'.   

But I can't help what year I was born in.  I can't help the fact that I ain't got to invade Normandy and face real Nazis shooting at me with guns who need a real ass-kicking.  Instead I get khaki clad and Tiki torch carrying mother fuckers who just shopped at Target©, or a step- dad being a jerk to me on Thanksgiving about Obama's birth certificate and the Republican party slowly destroying our democracy. 

I can't help the fact that the science people already solved most of the problems that people have faced in the past, but the technocrats and capitalist elites won't let them do anything about it.

I can't help that the wealth this country produced is going to be left to a bunch entitled kids who think this world was created by magic. They like to complain about the drudgery of work and low pay, but you'd never see them organize a Union. 

So like you I focus on myself.  Maybe to the detriment of our species, or maybe just to the detriment of the rest of the pre-homeless population.  But it is what it is.  And their ain't no sense in complaining to me about what I really should be doing with my life. 

Frankly, I ain't gonna listen to you.  If I was, I surely would have listened by now. Instead I am just spend my time thinking a lot about Bath Salts.  About how maybe they ain't as bad for ya as people tell you they are.

Also, I Got an app on my phone where I listen to all these podcasts and news reports.  They go on for hours and keep me informed about stuff I really need to know about.  Like the virus, reports on Feminism, red pill conspiracies and such.

But I'm always doing a lot of stuff like that. Drinking, gambling.  Anything to keep my mind occupied and growing.  I'm learning new stuff constantly.  I am on the Internet and YouTube everyday.   I check out sites that inform me about all kinds of things.  Though I won't bother believing anything that I can't find on Reddit.com or in some antiquated secondary literature on social theory. 

That's because I'm done reading. Maybe if I could get my leg to stop shaking, I'd sit down and read the old fashioned way.  One book, one idea at a time.  No hyper threads linking me to conspiracy theories.  No engaging in the frenetic masturbation of the schizoid. 

But like I said, that shit's old fashioned. Kindle, internet, twitter, TikTok, I get my information the way the new generation does.  My WHOLE brain is connected via the Internet! Faster.  I see connections everywhere.

Connections are not like Karma though. Karma's a bunch of horse shit.  I see real solid connections based on informed guestimations. Old people don't get it.  But I'm not like most old people.  Shit, put a hat on me and I could pass for 27.  Give me some E.  My face goes all soft.  I look early teens.  My facial transformations scare the Bejesus out of the teenagers I rave with.

They started calling me RAVE. Like in all capital letters.  Pretty cool nickname if I say so myself.  And you can't give yourself nicknames, otherwise we'd all call ourselves Max.

Sobriquet.  That's a fancy name for nickname.  Bet you didn't think I new that.  Well, I watch TV shows like NEWSROOM so you know that I am practically a pseudo-intellectual.  I watched it on the YOUTUBE.  Sometimes HBO airs previews of their TV shows on YOUTUBE for free.  Bet you didn't know that!  But I did. That's because I am two steps ahead of you! You old fucking dinosaur!!!  Hahaha rarrr

But I love that about you. How you're always behind. I love that I get to teach you stuff.  In fact I love you and part of me is secretly thinking about fucking you right now,,,ya...RIGHT NOW.

Don't get soft or wet just yet.  I'm probably not going to make my move anytime soon.  But it could happen.  If you get lucky.  Just think about it.  Think about me having my way with you.

WAIT A MINUTE

I think we got off track.  I am trying to explain today's universe to you.  Then we got all crazy.  HAHAH  Sorry, man.  But don't fret.  We got plenty of time.  So long as the circulation goes back to my feet. So long as the hair grows back on my legs.  So long as I stop drinking soda. Then we could have a few good years.  I think I got ten maybe 12 years left in me before I kick the bucket.  Before my kidneys shut down.  Before my job gets canned.  Before the robots take over. Before the Amazon has everybody doing slave labor.

I'm glad I'll be dead before all that. When America is no longer #1.  When all we can do is get out kicks from watching hand ball or water polo tournaments.

"OH YEAH!!! WELL OUR WATER POLO TEAM FINISHED IN 17TH PLACE IN THE WORLD CUP FINAL, SO TAKE THAT URGUAY!"

Naah.  That shit is for you younger generations, instead me an your Mom is just gonna play finger-pony in my ass while this fucking bath salt mania keeps me unnaturally high.

You Gen Z's can handle sucking.  You can handle coming in second.  My generation, well...we didn't handle that shit too well.  That's why we slack. I mean sure we wrote Heather's and Clerk's. Two damn good movies.  But after that, it was like eating PEZ candy, after the nostalgia runs out you realize you've just been eating shit candy and go hunting for something like a Magnum Caramel Ice Cream Bar.  Wayyyyy too fucking extravagant, but fuck it as the food stamps are paying for that shit.   And fuck the looks the guy driving the Mercedes gives you when you go to pay and have to count out your rolled coins, the three gift cards with the store credit you got for returning that spoiled meat you forgot you left on the counter to pay for your shit.

Fuck that dude.  Find his car later, and let the air out of it.  You'd have stabbed that tire a few years ago, but have you seen the mountains of tires located on urban centers that get set on fire each summer? Sending mad caps of black smoke into the air.  That shits for real, y'all.

Sorry for making this so long, I was going to keep this shit tight.

You know real short and all, but then I had today's poop watch and it was clay colored, which is a heck of a lot better than yesterday's green poop, you know what I am saying?  So things were on a spiral up.  My digestive track was getting better, so I thought I'd bring the energy. That is until about two minutes ago when I let loose with some juicy, green, almost chunky diarrhea.  Shit burned my ass chaps.  

So now I am thinking... that shit mostly don't change, if you know what I mean.

Oversharing is what blogs are for

I've been oversharing at work.  I talk to my customers about my life in the minutia that bloggers do, like the people at work really give a crap.  Example.  I tell my customers that, "I just bought a used car."

"It's a 1990 Volvo 760 turbo." I say.  "I bought it for only $1300."

The Volvo 760 has that amazing turbo whine.  I just love the sound of it! 

"Oh, how nice for you."  They reply.

Then I tell them how I took the car around several repair shops to get an oil change.

"It turns out that you can't take a Volvo to Walmart for an oil change.  They don't stock the necessary parts to do an oil change.  I had to go to Midas.  Midas charges $39.99 for an oil change."

And sometimes my  customers will agree with me that the price seems "a bit high."  But that just encourages me to tell them that the mechanic I took it for the oil change found an oil leak.

"Might be something, might be nothing.  But I am going to have the undercarriage power washed and the shop is going to add some dye to the engine to determine where the leak is coming from."

"If the leak isn't important they can just add a valve cover or something and the cost will be a few hundred dollars and everything should be okay.  But of course if the leak is from someplace important it could cost quite a bit more money and the engine or the turbo may be in danger or already ruined."

If that IS the case, then I am fucked.  A new turbo could easily run a 2,000 bucks.  A new engine just as much.  I don't have nearly enough money to fix those things if they go wrong.

I go on like that all day.  Same story to hundreds of customers.   I also engage my fellow workmates in my oversharing.  I talk and talk.

Afterwards I  feel like shit, like a druggie after getting high, huffing paint and then waking up in a puddle of my own piss and swearing to myself, "Never again!"

But the next customer comes and I talk about how the car has air conditioning.  And how I just bought new seat covers, and how I am thinking about getting a new stereo so I can play my phone or an mp3 player while I drive.

Not that I have driven anywhere since I have gotten the car.  That's the question I have gotten the most.  "Gone anyplace cool since you got the car.  "Nope."  I answer.  "Just the MVD, Dairy Queen, and work."

So now I have to overshare with you.  Aren't you lucky?

Summer time fun

It was hot outside today, somebody turn off the toaster oven, because it's baking me at a hundred and ten.

Took the bus to some run down apartment house to buy a car.* Before I could do that though I had to poop in a girl's bathroom at Shlotsky's Sandwich Shoppe.  I waited for ten minutes outside the men's only stall to no avail.  Dude was simply not budging.  Right as I get that loose shit out of me some girl comes barging in.  I screamed out "someone's in here!"

I gave the girl a shock I bet!  And she was a total cutie.  I bet she regretted the day she walked in after me...

ProTip:  If it takes you twenty minutes to poop, you don't have to poop!  If you have to shit diarrhea in the girl's bathroom you have a MEDICAL CONDITION.

So I finally get to the apartment and the damn bitch forgot to tell me that the car didn't have a battery.  So there was no way for me to start the car, check it out, or even take it on a test drive.

Did I mention that I took the bus to see her?  Well, I told her.  You would think she might have mentioned the battery situation.  It's not like I was going to go back on the bus, then look for an auto parts store and ride back on the bus to maybe fix her car for her.

The world is senseless.

The world is fucking with me.  Still.  After all these years.  Like the same stupid joke god never gets tired of hearing.  Why?  Why?  Why you no get tired of same joke, God?

On the ride home

I got to talking to a fellow bus rider about my situation.  The rider offered to give me their number, "so we could hang out sometime."

Pretty sure that dude was gay.

I downloaded a few books from the library.  One of them is After Shock by Robert Reich.  Talks about how the 1% is fucking us over.  The other book is A First Rate Madness by Nassir Ghaemi which talks about how crazy people are the best leaders.  It gives weight to ideas like how depressive's see the world, "study after study has shown that those suffering depression are better than "normal" people at assessing current threats and predicting future outcomes."

So they seem like really good books.  I thought I would share with you guys how things are going since it has been too long since I have written.  I might start writing a little more often.  So stay tuned.

*How the fuck can I afford a car you ask?  It turns out I have a 401k from the old Self Help Center job.  It was just sitting there earning me interest and shit.  So I took it out.  Got a couple of g's yo!  So I am in the market for a crappy used car that will cost me too damn much of my beer drinking money, will probably break down on me in the first few weeks, and leave me crying to myself the next morning after huffing on lubrication.