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  • Fuck the Jones's, I ain't keeping up with shit

    Before I forget, the latest countdown has begun. 10 more days.

    And now, on with the show.

     

    So, as I was watching a Depeche Mode concert (okay, mostly listening, but still) and reading a self-help book earlier this afternoon, Epiphany smoked me yet another in a seemingly endless line of sharp blows to my pretty little head. However, in a VERY refreshing change from the norm, this time it was totally The Good Kind.

    To preface, whilst I type this, I'm pondering whether to take a nap for 3 or 4 hours, maybe get cleaned up and venture out to Burger King for some snacks, perhaps finally plug in that Nirvana DVD that came with the box set I bought sometime before xmas. Or simply do sweet fuck all. As you read this, on the other paw, you're likely at work, sneaking a few minutes to read the babbling and gibberish of someone so obviously beyond the pale it's damn near laughable. To somewhat lighten the burden of having a real job and shit. Pursuing the great consumer dream. Best of luck to you with that.

     

    What will truly make me happy?

    I'm not really sure, but I DO know that it's not what's supposed to make me happy. Nope, I've never claimed to be happy, but to achieve this state I work a great deal many hours less per week than the average drone. Will working 50 and 60 hours a week make me happier? Somehow, I kinda doubt it. My distinct unhappiness is pretty much intrinsic. I may not have as many things as some folks, but I have more than enough free time to enjoy them, were I so inclined. Given the lifestyle I've become accustomed to, pretty much alls I need is 3 hots and a cot. In fact, if it weren't for the constant threat of being raped in the shower, I could likely be happy in prison. Time to read and work out plus the aforementioned free room and board. Maybe learn a trade whilst I'm there.

    Nope, I don't have a car or any real desire to ever again own one. This makes me environmentally sound, and, besides; do any of y'all REALLY want the likes of me behind the wheel of a large amount of metal, given what you've come to learn about my somewhat precarious mental state? I'm guessing not so much. Does this make me a worse person than someone that owns a fancy car? Nope. Oh, I totally AM a worse person than damn near every-fucking-body, but not because I don't drive. That's just a minor personality quirk.

    Nope, I don't make as much money as most folks, but in all honesty I want for nothing material, can afford to go to my beloved Las Vegas 3 times a year and have plenty of free time. Sometimes way too much free time. Which tends to lead to me ''thinking'', which y'all know can only end badly. Or will by the time I'm through here.

    Although I have actually applied for a promotion at work, in a different department, which I am qualified for but will not get because I'm SO not Joe Corporate and have no time for company picnics, politics or any of the rest of it.

    As it is, I essentially get paid to work out. Which, for me, kinda beats sitting behind a desk (oddly enough, I tend to do this during my free time, anyway) all day and then shelling a bunch of money for a gym membership which I'd never use because I'd always be too damn tired. Besides, everybody knows that guys only join the gym so they can watch hot young women work out. Then they go home and either bang the shit out of their significant other whilst thinking about that hot young blonde with the aerobicized ass and the gravity-defying brestesses that they watched climbing the Stairmaster for 3 hours. Or, if single, they go home and jerk off thinking about said blonde. Brunette. Redhead. Nubian Queen. What have you.

    I'm friends with quality people that I've often known for a long time and whom I can trust. This must mean that I'm either a good person (sigh) or, and this is the option I'm leaning towards: they're simply trying to improve their odds on that whole 1 in 5 folks will be stricken with a mental illness deal. Regardless, good folks deem me worthy of spending their time with. So I must be doing something right. This would be success, would it not? Maybe not the kind that we're trained from birth to yearn for, but for right now; it's a foundation upon which I can build.

     

    Sure, I'm rationalizing things more than a smidge (c'est la vie, n'est pas?), but obviously my priorities have been a little skewed and now I'm finally starting to ask the right questions. All because of one seemingly insignificant gesture that lead to something positive. All because I didn't dwell on the hows, whys and what-ifs of the Scenario; I was simply angry enough that night that I just threw caution and, likely, good sense to the wind and fucking DID it. And, while it didn't work out as well as I might have liked; so what? I did the right thing for the right reason and something good came of it. If I were inclined to believe in such things, I'd say there's likely a lesson in there somewhere.

    Anyway, the important thing is that now that I know what I have, I think I'm in a better position to know what I want. And who. Enjoy your Friday, y'all. Take care.

    Or maybe this is all merely the result of the local from this morning's dentist visit finally beginning to wear off and Hurt. Who's to say?

     

  • Women of the Day 03/31/06

    A little pressed for time this a.m., early dentist appointment, so I'll likely be somewhat briefer than usual. I'm a little on edge, as you may or may not be able to surmise. I am, however, looking forward to the local I'll be getting to numb my tooth. If only I could get a larger dose for my larger, slightly more permanent issues. Sigh.

     

    Birthday wishes to the immortal Christopher fucking Walken this balmy spring day. The Russian Roulette scenes in The Deer Hunter. And nothing more needs to be said.

     

    I want to be known for my hits, not just my misses

    I took a shot and didn't even come close

     

    Of late, I find myself completely stupefied by the answering machine. Especially if it offers more options than: you know the drill, after the beep and shit.

    Y'all know how well I handle choice. And, of course, technology.

    Oh Hell no I ain't got one of my own. All of the time I'd spend in pursuit of the ideal outgoing message would cut into the time I have to devote to the search for the perfect title. And we simply cannot have that.

     

    C for Couth. Uh huh, sure pal. Is it Opposite Day again, already? No, but apparently it is Bunsen Burner Day. I fucking KNEW the geeks were taking over the world. Good for them. They can fucking have it. Just leave me a nice quiet cave somewheres far far FAR away from, like, every-fucking-body. Hmmm...C for Captain Caveman? Yeah, I kinda like the sound of that one, too. Anybody know wherefore I can procure me a solid, hefty, you know, club?

     

    Yes, women totally keep score. Of anything and everything you do and/or don't. Getting to make her see god (or whoever) is all in the details, baby. Little things. Emotional support. Romantic gestures. All things that guys tend to ignore. Calling her in the middle of the day just because you happen to be in the same area code or time zone.

    And when she's rambling on and on and fucking ON as they tend to do, you don't even really have to listen that hard; as long as you remember not to EVER try to fix any problems she might mention. That's not why she's mentioning them to you. Just coo sympathetically. Hug her. Touch her affectionately. Try to remember her name. Spend the entire time picturing her and her best friend performing various contortions upon each other and you.

    What? Like I said, I read all them relationship books. And, not having one of my own (and not really a great deal of interest in same) gives me plenty of free time for study and objective, impartial observation. Just trying to help. What's it gonna Hurt you to give this little notion its day in court?

     

    Much obliged to Sonya for stopping by (you've been missed, honey) and commenting 2X yesterday. You really should be earning some extra cash moneys writing them bodice ripper-type romance novels; you've got a certain flair for both the scenarios and the language. If I were to discuss all of my sex-type dreams, I'd never have time or space for anything else. Actually and factually, my dreams are usually about pain and fire and rivers of blood; swinging wildly between and betwixt the mildly esoteric and the downright fucking strange, so I'm usually quite thrilled to have something more mundane to view every once in a while.

    For the record: yes, I have. Yes, I do. The womenfolks need to use both hands. Movie theatre. Cemetery. Moving car. Just to mention a few.

    As for your 2nd comment, it's come to me, not come FOR me. I'm, like, begging, not demanding. That's just how I roll. Strangely enough, it seems to be working quite well this month. Although, back in the world, I'm working on my approach. More of a step to the plate like a real boy (no strings) dealio. Progress is slow, but hopes remain high.

    Thanks also to Jim for stopping by (tell all your friends, acquaintances and complete strangers to do likewise) and commenting. Yes, Sonya sure can weave a tale, can't she? Her comments are often longer and somewhat more interesting than the posts they accompany. Definitely more colorful.

    And your English is better than mine. After all, Mumble is my first language and I'm just faking the other.

     

    Since today is the last day of Women's History Month, I'm all for gangs of womenfolks roaming the streets looting and pillaging and forcing unsuspecting menfolks (like, say, me) to have sex with 2 and 3 of them at a time. It's your time to shine, ladies. Do the fucking village.

     

    The list:

     

    1) Meg Whitman (President and CEO of eBay. in previous lives she was: responsible for making Keds; a chief exec at FTD; and responsible for global marketing of Mr. Potato Head, a longtime personal fave.)

     

    2) Sedna (the Inuit folks believed that she used ugliness as protection to help her rule over the sea animals. anyone who dared to look at her would be struck dead. damn, but that sounds familiar. how do y'all think I've managed to keep my goldfish, Silver, Alive lo these many hours?)

     

    3) Stephanie Kwolek (invented Kevlar in 1966. like I said, the last day of Women's History Month. maybe I can get some for my Chrome-Plated Heart?)

     

    4) Letitia Geer (the patron Saint (of the Day) of junkies and diabetics; she invented the syringe in 1899. maybe that's why it's called gear? wow, I really do learn something new every time I do one of these things. yay, me! yay, gear! yay, Heroin!)

     

    5) T.J. Hart (to continue a theme, two, actually: fine, busty blonde porn star and occasional B-movie actress. star of Sex Games Vegas: Jack and Jill, which I suspect may just be a smidge different than the version of Jack and Jill y'all learned about as children.)

     

    All right, I'm losing my train of blank, so it's well nigh on time to bounce. May your Friday be smooth and calm. I'll be back later, to shamelessly whore for more of my beloved traffic.

  • Come to me, sweet traffic

    I promise I'll treat you right. Love you and be faithful to you and all that good shit. Treat you with respect and decency and such.

     

    I saw an ad for the new Antonio Banderas flick today. Take the Lead? More like Take the Fucking Paycheque. Yeah, I'll be rushing to the theatre to see this one. And god (or whoever) help anyone what gets in my merry little way. And yet, probably not.

    That there was what I like to refer to as sarcasm. I've become quite fond of it, so y'all can expect to see a great deal of it in the future as I hone it to a razor sharp point.

    Anyone else remember when Banderas was the Mariachi? The Vampire Armand, perhaps? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Hell, at least the Spy Kids flicks had Robert Rodriguez at the helm.

     

    The Biggest Loser? Am I like being Punk'd or something? Ashton, you Kyle Korver-looking motherfucker, come on out. The jig's up, buddy. I'm onto you. Although I'd much rather be onto Demi. And I believe I've mentioned my feelings for Sharon Stone.

     

    I see where Jessica Simpson may be looking to adopt a child or many and possibly to fund her own orphanage. I fucking KNEW the woman was a real humanitarian; a sage, even.

    It looks like everybody that thought she was Princess Not-So-Bright was totally wrong. She's just been playing y'all for chumps. Me? Yeah, she looks like THAT and has that boomin' frame and I give the ass of a dead rodent whether or not there's any brain matter at all in her pretty little head. The onliest thing I want in her head is me.

    I'm pretty sure she simply needs some DEEEEEEP dicking to knock (think skull VS. headboard) these foolish notions out of her head. Fortuitously or un, I'm always available to provide same. For her as an individual or her and Ashlee as a set. What's their mom look like, anyway? Mayhap all 3 of 'em. It's good to have goals sometimes.

    What? Sometimes it pays to advertise. Or so I keep telling myself. Although, in my own defence, my streak of actual and factual digits received continues.

     

    Everybody seems to get stuck trying to find a rhyme for orange, but what about silver? Do you know how difficult it is to compose an ode to one's goldfish (they have a memory span of 3 seconds, roughly 2 seconds longer than...where was I?) when nothing rhymes with his name? No, I don't suppose that you do.

     

    In case any of y'all were, like I my ownself, questioning the principles and tenets of organized religion: apparently TV's Mr. Rogers is, again like I my ownself, an ordained minister. I'm sorry, but a kickass cardigan does not a bastion of purity and sainthood make. It DOES, however, kinda make a definitive fashion statement, though, don't it? Something along the lines of: gather the angry mob. Fire up the torches. Grab them ropes, stones and pitchforks; there's a ped in our midst. Jack the fucker UP!

    Yeah, I care whether or not he's even still Alive. Why let such minor details interrupt my 'flow'?

     

    And that's the name of that tune. My long anticipated return to Sleepytime is beckoning. Peace.