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  • Oh my, this is gonna Hurt

    I'm really trying to think of my loss as your gain (3 posts in one day? I can't even recall the last time that happened), but since my spin control skills kinda suck, I'm failing miserably. Aren't I selfish, though?

     

    So, after 3 blessed hours of nearly painless (for me) Sleepytime this a.m. I was awoken by full daylight, damn near whiteout conditions (there's a heavy snowfall warning in effect apparently), streaming through my bedroom window, which I completely fucking HATE; being nocturnal and despising daylight (daylight bad, girl pretty) and all. This made it difficult enough to attempt to set sail yet again from the shores of Awake, when, as an added bonus: some loudmouthed fucking piece of shit (bear with me, whenever I'm sleep-deprived, my vocabularic (yeah, like I care whether or not that's even a, you know, word) aspirations kinda tend to exit stage left on me) kid was running up and down the hallway outside the Manor yipping and kiyiing at the top of its worthless little lungs. I thought we were being invaded or something and was about to break out my trusty firearm (oh yeah, I was Naked, wearing Only a cock ring), throw on my battered combat helmet and army boots and wade into the fray when I realized it was merely someone's unattended little waste of a perfectly good load of come that really should've been swallowed. Somehow, I managed to put away my sidearm anyway. Naturally, I called Social Services (after I called my sponsor) ; what with the way the little cocksucker was screaming, he was either abused or, like, seriously needed to be. Don't they have sweatshops where otherwise pointless and useless children can learn a trade making Nike gear and shit? To add insult to injury, this little fucking nitwit kept loudly opening and closing the mail slot on my door. I nearly kicked its stupid ass down the fucking hallway, but managed to restrain myself. You've NO idea how difficult it was, though. And now I find myself with a bitch of a headache and a REALLY long dark night of the soul looms over me on the Sword of Damocles tip. Yay. Whitney Houston needs to be severely punished for that whole I believe the children are our future nonsense. No more crack for her.

    Now, don't get me wrong, I like kids...if they're cooked properly. On a bed of sticky rice. With an insouciant (I've been meaning to use this word for a while now), piquant (this one, too) sauce. And a 40 of malt liquor to cleanse the palate. Maybe a Lithium sorbet for dessert. Some petits-fours, perhaps.

    Anyway, since I'm fuelling up on coffee and nicotine and a lid (cocaine is for doing, crack is for selling) and wondering how I'm ever going to get rid of the Louis Vuittons under my peepers in the next couple of hours, I figured I might as well make with the incoherent ranting and raving for a spell. I'm hoping my recent losing streak of insomnia is merely the result of being forced into going to Sleepytime earlier than usual and the side effects of actually taking a risk for oncet. If I'd known sooner that taking risks sometimes has non-negative results, I might've done it sooner. Or not. Whatever. Again, I really don't want anyone to think that I've stabbed them in the back or that I'm gloating about this, I'm simply shocked and amazed that something I've attempted hasn't resulted in complete fucking disaster. Total chaos, even. Yet. Yay, me!

     

    Okay, I'm kinda new to this sort of thing, being all Honesty Boy and completely sans guile and all; is now the time when I'm supposed to start trying to play silly little games and pretending I don't think she's kinda neat and such? Oddly enough, she still hasn't told me that I am, in fact, a Creep. But it's inevitable, as I, in fact, AM a Creep.

    The brakes are out, the cliffs are waiting. The overanalysis has begun, and it's all straight downhill on the slippery slope of my own stupidity/insecurity from here on out. Good Times.

     

    It seems that my boy Kim has made it back safe and sound from his lengthy excursion to the D.R. and Daytona. I'm glad that he has, he's good people; don't go thinking I'm going all Brokeback Mountain on y'all. I'm straight, even if my approach is more than a little crooked. And yet, apparently not quite crooked enough. I'm a man of contradictions, me. Which is odd, considering what a simple creature I really am. Which would be yet another contradiction, n'est pas?

    Although...if it'll increase traffic and, much much MUCH more importantly, Google AdSense numbers; I'll feign homosexuality. I'm constantly striving to be a chameleon, Everything to Everyone. To drop some Everclear on y'all.

    I just hope for his sake that he doesn't rub his new tan (assuming that he makes it out to volleyball this eve) in all our pale faces. Shit could get ugly-like then. But I'll still have his back, that's just how I roll. Anything for a friend. I tend to like my friends more than I like myself. But y'all know that.

     

    Some days I genuinely Wish I could simply be one of the mindless sheep I see so often in my travels. I like to think that my life would be a great deal simpler if I didn't, you know, 'think' quite so much. Maybe if I started watching reality shows and/or Dr. Phil? Got a lobotomy? Took better and stronger drugs? Rented Titanic? Stopped reading the things with the words? Damn, I don't even know where to begin. Story of my life. Sigh.

     

    I'm really beginning to like Fall Out Boy's song Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends and not merely for the Cool title anymore. If the rest of the disc is anywhere near as goodly, I doth believe that my next purchase looms near. It's a pretty kickass tune, I highly recommend y'all check it out if you've the opportunity.

    Mayhap this is where my current nonsensical obsession, SparkleCandy Girl originated. Yes, I'm still working on developing more than the weak chorus I've come up with. It deserves so much better.


     

    All right, I'm off to fire up some psych up-type tunes and see if I can devise a means of injecting caffeine directly into my veins, despite my deathly fear of needles. Although I suppose that, should worse lead to worst, I can always go and knock on K's door and see if I might borrow her mortar and pestle (being a scientist, she does, in fact, possess these items; don't ask how it came up in polite conversation, although it was likely in regard to something similar) ; sos I can grind up a mess of Pretty in Pink caffeine pills into an easily snorted powder. Now wherefore did I put that mirror? Take care, y'all, Happy Mardi Gras. Wish this hapless chump good luck (I thought I'd best specify, I've plenty of The Other Kind) this evening, as he'll more than certainly require it.

  • It seems I may have acted too hastily...

    On 2 fronts:

    a) The auto post earlier this a.m., I finished today's list early last evening and nearly forgot to Wish y'all a Happy Mardi Gras. May y'all either give or receive plenty of shiny baubles for breastesses flashes. Because I care, dammit.

     

    2) It seems that I may have again given up too hastily, although quitting is pretty much always its own justification as far as I'm concerned; she and I had a pleasant chat last evening, but, never fear, your humble narrator will yet find a way or 50 to snatch defeat from the jaws of neutrality...it's a gift. I am, after all, an inveterate fuckup.

    She's a little bit unconventional. I, on the other hand, am apparently vanilla (you are what you drink). And yet, kinda not. Especially since I get to write my own history hereabouts.

    Unconventional is good, even if I always assume (yeah, I know: you, me and umption) otherwise. I'm just happy that again (!!!) I somehow managed not to step on my own dick. Knock wood, he said, dealing hisself a swift blow to the base of the skull; catching hisself completely by surprise.

    And that's about all of the self-centeredness I can stomach this a.m., I can already feel the gods firing up the lightning bolts and such to make me suffer for such unbelievable hubris. Let's see: how do I hate me? Let me count the ways. I can think of at least a dozen. There, that's better. I should be all right now. Or at least as much as I ever am.

     

    Finally, a Happy Birthday to good ol' Captain Stubing of the Pacific Princess, Gavin MacLeod. For the hours of endless mirth and such that he's provided us, it's the least I can do.

     

    All right, now I'm really Gone. Remember, kiddies, Mardi Gras is a viable reason to take the day off from work. Or, failing that, I'll write you an excuse note. Like I always say, full service. Smile, not so much.

  • Women of the Day 02/28/06

    I just keep digging myself in deeper, don't I? Oh look, there's China. Good, I could really go for an eggroll, it's been much too long and I'm quite hungry this a.m.

    I tend to feel things a smidge too deeply, way way WAY too fast. And that, along with the one tattooed on my right shoulder, would be the cross which I bear.

    I always figure that if I'm going to be punting something anyway; I may as well punt it with authority. With Teeth, even. The extreme almost always kinda tends to make an impression.

    The worst part is knowing how and why I tend to fuck things up and yet, being completely fucking powerless to prevent it. Alls I can do is to observe and comment ''oh, this is gonna Hurt''; just like I Do in my troubled and feverish Dreams of pain and fire. And normalcy.

    But I'm forgiving myself for all the mistakes I've made. Slowly but surely.

     

    Song of the Day: Nine Inch Nails- Gave Up (live). I've said it before, but it bears repeating...I tried. I Gave Up. That's me in a nutshell. Well, okay, maybe not the trying part, but still.

     

    Here's hoping that my moms' (sorry, I didn't know when y'all were leaving) flight back from Toronto is rapid and safe-like. As I believe I've mentioned, I'm more concerned about the health and well-being of others than that of my own self. And, of course, I don't actually let my folks read this nonsense (would you let your parents know exactly how insane you truly are?); it's for their own good, really. Better that they believe I'm just a quiet hermit, all normal and shit.

     

    Did I mention that tonight I'll be seeing K(A) at volleyball? Can you tell how very muchly I'm looking forward to it? Am I that transparent?

    Actually, I kinda am all anxious to see her again. Her seeing ME is another story entirely. With a very unpleasant ending. Ordinarily, those are the best kind, but since that's the Only kind of ending my stories tend to have of late...I doth believe it's well nigh on time for a change. Like. You know.

    I'm not quite sure what the over/under is with regard to how many completely stupid things I'll say to her and how long it'll take before I do so. The sky's the limit, I reckon. This is why I never say anything to pretty much anyone back in the world. Less chance of ramming the size 14 into my gullet.

     

    Upon arriving at work on Sunday night, I found myself getting my few remaining teeth rattled by the sliding glass doors (the store was still kinda open). They're heavier than they look. I'm sure everyone present got a kick out of it when I burst into tears. And yet, not. Anyway, you know things are looking kinda fucking bleak when even the all-seeing, all-knowing Electric Eye fails to recognize you as an entity.

     

    Since I've been sans muse for well over a decade, this was all that my latest nonsensical obsession yielded, a chorus. Kinda sorta.:

    You're the sunshine to my rain

    the one of whom I dream

    you are my world

    put your Trust in me

    SparkleCandy Girl

     

    Just in case any of y'all were wondering whyfore I Gave Up the writing. And yet, I like the phrase SparkleCandy Girl so very much that I'ma put my little thinking cap on and try to come up with an entire song. Simply because I've way too much free time and because I REALLY need to distract myself right about now.

     

    The list:

     

    1) Gertrude Stein (authrix. feminist. best known for her ALL-too-appropriate to my own Scenario quote: there's no there, there.)

     

    2) Kim Martin (goalie for the Swedish Women's Olympic Hockey squad. she got herself Red Hot and lead her team to an upset of the USA juggernaut (37 saves and a shootout victory) and a silver medal against Canada. also played in 2002, when she was but 15. did I mention that she's Swedish?)

     

    3) Rachael Ray (I finally caught her show on the Food Network, and I'll be back, as she's quite the tasty little dish her own self. what? I believe I've mentioned that I'm working without a muse. or a net, for that matter.)

     

    4) Stacy Keibler (ordinarily, I'm a tit man from way back, but for this leggy blonde with the phenomenal ass, I'll make an exception. I think she was better utilized in WCW than in WWE, though; other than the bra and panties matches, of course. apparently, she was also one of the contestants on yet another show I'll never watch, Dancing With the Stars; maybe when they have a show entitled Scoring Crack With the Stars or Robbing a Liquor Store With a Crackhead, I'll check me out a reality show. maybe not. who's to say?)

     

    5) Minka (apparently the largest busted Asian girl in the world; god (or whoever) bless implants and augmentation. feature dancer and adult film star willing to do that type of action films with her fans (!!!). ALL movie starlets, both legit and adult, should do likewise. it's all about giving (head) back to the fans, after all.)

     

    Seeing as how I've been pretty much comatose since Sunday night, I'ma bid y'all adieu. I've a very early volleyball game this evening, which means another long dark night of the soul afterwards; especially considering how things are likely to proceed. Yet again, the glass has been smashed on the ground; fuck half empty vs. half full. Anyway, I don't want the ever-present luggage under my eyes to be too bad, so off to sleepytime. I hope that Black History Awareness Month has been kinder to you than it has to me.