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  • Yet Again, The Divine Ms. Moore Said It Best

    I really AM looking forward to looking back on these days. Since I don't sleep nights, am dragging this lake for the corpses of all my past mistakes, and I'm kinda feeling all look at this morose motherfucker right here for some reason. Which bothers me, because I prefer when my free floating anxiety has an anchor.


    It troubles me that:

    - I remember when the unnecessary character, Cassie, on the new season of Dexter played Haley James on One Tree Hill. And that I still find her single Halo (I was listening to it on repeat about an hour ago) to be the new mad notes. And that I once bonded with a girl over a mutual affection for the show. Which I wasn't faking.

    - I would have never remembered that the 10th and the 14th of this month were dates of unpleasantries (sadly, my memory also serves me FAR too fucking well) if they hadn't popped up on my obsolete iPhone 3. Which I prefer to the 4. I fucking hate the 4. And my service provider. And the fact that they have the colossal fucking nerve to try to charge me extra for paper billing (I'm from the school that burned down before they put up the old school, sue me) yet fail to see the hypocrisy in constantly inundating me with paper junk mail.

    - I programmed those dates into the calendar of my obsolete iPhone 3. I know the enemy and he is me.

    - Everything I say, type or think is either a quote or a fucking cliche. Right down to when I say hi.

    - I only watch TV shows or movies (see above) based on the attractiveness of the female leads. Well, okay, that one's just common sense.

    - I revisited the one good thing I'd THOUGHT I'd done in my life this evening and...yeah, not so much. Good Times!


    After Target blamed its poor quarter on Canada, I put on my thinking cap: if I were to randomly picket locations of Target Canada (it's really not the same, even if I've only been once), would that lead to a more attractive entry point for me to buy the stock?


    It never fails to amuse me (I'm really a very simple creature) when folks of a Christian bent (oh so carefully chosen turn of phrase, BTW) happen across your humble narrator here in the ether. One of the extra benefits of the carefully selected username Christian on several sites. It's a name, not a lifestyle choice, people.

    And, since I'm in a mood (I may have to soon take another run at the lovely concoction of the good folks at Eli Lilly, Cymbalta - added bonus side effect of difficulty achieving orgasm for hours), a quick summary of religion, regardless of your particular affiliation or, again, bent: It's every man for himself and god (or whoever) against all. And god (or whoever) is likely sitting this one out. Probably watching Big Brother or the like.


    A picture of me with an ex in Montana popped up on my screensaver today (again, own worst enemy - everyone else likes me) and I thought 2 things: a) damn I looked good and 2) who took the picture, I know we were alone in the woods and, surprisingly enough, both made it out.

    It probably makes me a bad person that the only really vivid memories I have of the many yet not nearly enough exes is of them blowing me. Which probably should also trouble me but really doesn't. I am, however, trying to remember other things about them. Like the one that told me I could come anywhere but in her mouth. That's always a happy one


    It's good to see Michael J. Fox is coming back to TV. Been a fan ever since he was the venerable Alex P. Keaton. I am, of course, saddened by the fact the show likely won't be long term. Because I'll probably enjoy it.


    I don't drink anymore, so this is all I have left. Too bad, too, as I still have a lot of alcohol in the house. Well, let's see if the sleeping pills will work tonight. Tomorrow's another day and the markets are open. There's money to be made.

  • It Takes A Village

    And somewhere, someday, I'll find mine. They're probably looking for me, too. Or, upon further reflection (that's like, what I DO), probably not.


    The divine Ms. Anna Nalick (please put out another album soon; yes, I'm talking to you, too Michelle Branch) said it best, and I've gotten away from it without having the pining and moping to fall back on, but yes, these words are my diary screaming out loud. Try to keep up, there may be a quiz later, boys that look like me don't use spell check, and my train of blank flows wherefore it will.


    I've realized of late that I don't really have a great deal in common with anyone.

    Yeah, I know. Been there. Done that. The medication's off patent. it does, however, make things difficult. Especially since, and if you've perused the About Me portion of proceedings (if you haven't, shame on you, I went to a great deal of trouble to concoct it), you'll know this, I'm a bit of a flake. I don't hold an interest very long but when I do, it becomes an obsession. There was (scroll through the archives, I used to be relatively creative with the wordplay as foreplay) the Kendra years. There's always the travel. There was the Game period. And then, when the fantasy sports sites got blocked at work, I discovered the stock market. I've been successful to some degree with all. Except, of course, for the divine Ms. K, but the jury's still out on that one. I'm still the kinda boy that can't let shit go. Nope, no idea what the next fling will be. I'll burn that bridge when I'm in the middle.

    But my first, best thing was the writing. With the, what do you call them? Oh yeah, words. See, it's easy if you try. And I haven't done anything in years. Still searching for a muse. I don't even read fiction anymore. Or I hadn't until I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower (I knew it would be good when I saw the trailer, not only am I psychotic, I'm psychic) and discovered there was a book. Which was even better than the film, quelle surprise. Then I read Silver Linings Playbook (Hank Baskett was the bomb in that one, yo). Yeah, I know, when you look for a pattern, a pattern appears. Anyway, if ou haven't, check them out. From the book place. And I realized that I miss missing the creative. Will find some time in between the work on rapport and the balance sheet reading. As for whether or not I still have anything to say...maybe someday. But not tonight.


    Anyhoo, back to some semblance of a point. My best friend, damn near my brother, lost his wife (I always thought I'd go first) much too young. I've known him for 20+ years (as I've known the vast majority of my few friends), and the first time we've ever hugged is at his wife's wake.

    Back up and read that one over again, I'll wait. Boys are stupid, throw rocks at them. I've hugged porn stars and that hooker that blew me at the Palms that time, but never my closest friends. Now, admittedly, I don't come from a family of touchy feely tree huggers, and I don't really feel much in the way of emotion, but still. And no, I'm not a good person. Pretty much everyone is interchangeable, and what can you do for me? But, and this is where things get mushy, sometimes, you really do have to tell people they are important. Before they leave, as everyone does.

    To quote Pump Up The Volume, which I'll be watching (it's totes memory lane time, the worst address of all, tonight) later: Wow, that was dee. Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat! How does one type a burp, anyway? Fuck it. Least of my worries. And not just because it won't affect the price of Apple.

    And now, I can't even pick up the phone and see how he's doing. I mean, what do you say? Sure, I've lost that pseudo wife (even if she was never really there) and chased away too may girls to count, but it's really not the same. Not even a text, because I hate to intrude.


    So what brought on this fucked up llittle epiphany? Last night I dreamed (and yes, totally The Good Kind) of someone I haven't thought about since the 80's. Someone I once became quite unrequited of. Someone whom I naturally looked up on the Book of Face (oh yeah, my 5 shares of stock are finally in the green; Warren Buffett? I fucked him, he said, shamelessly dropping a Ford Fairlane reference) today. And got to see how some of the other high school folk have turned out. Always a good time, trust me. They all (again, like my friends, sometimes in my own little roundabout way, all my chickens come home to roost, y'all; yes, I also drop Malcom X quotes from time to time - I ain't a criminal, I can read, bitch) have families and careers and zombie lives in the suburbs.

    And me? Not so much. I've got the career that gives me the free time I've always wanted (whenever I hear someone drone on about how you should get 8 hours of sleep a night, I laugh and say no way I'm cutting back to just 8) and I travel whenever there's a concert or a sports event or a porn convention I feel like going to. And I have the retirement funding. But I really can't relate to all that other nonsense. The picket fence and all the rest of it never really interested me. Okay, maybe the dog. But, and I'm always the one that says it when it does, simply how I roll, that goes without saying.


    So, I sit here. With my Black Jack gum. The Replacements (they're touring again, I may have to use them Air Miles) on the iPod. No real direction, one or otherwise. To continue the Pump of the Volume thread, Samantha Mathis still looks kinda fly on Under the Dome. But I digress. I do that. Sue me.

    So I try to make conversation with the lonely LSE chicks (turns out my ideal match may just be 59, huge and with, like, a goiter and shit) that track me down on the dating sites. And I just can't. They start droning on about their spawn (sadly, the breeders always seem to flock to me; the quality problems of being tall, attractive (finally, I can admit it) and within spitting distance of intelligent, I seem like good breeding stock, must be my Amish child bearing hips - if you never got to hear the Insane Clown Posse doing color on WCW matches, I pity you) and the lights are on, but I'm never home (why yes, slogans, catch phrases, obscure referneces to John Hughes movies and song lyrics, that nicely puts me into a heart shaped box, thanks for asking; and run on sentences, too). And it's the same when I get together with old friends. It's good to see them, but it always leaves me feeling a little empty inside. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy their company, I value them, I just don't have anything in common with them.

    And yes, that's on me. Fuck it. I have big shoulders, I take all the blame. Always have. Always will. And that's about all I've got. Actually, it was more than I started out with so, yay, train of blank!

    So, Jennifer, I'm sorry. Robin, wherever you are, I hope the years since high school have treated you well, it would suck if you got fat. Tiffany, the soccer mom from Burbank, you're still the best date in the history of EVER. Katherine, I'm sorry about the narcolepsy, I had a hard gig. Charlotte, I've forgiven both of us. Well, okay, maybe just you. Medena, you tried, and I appreciate that.


    All right, I'm off to text my boy. And possibly someone who could be something. Likely the same exact message: Dude. Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuudddddddddddddddde. Dude.

    Simply how I roll. Power to the people, kiddies.