Now.

I shall bust some heads, supernatural or not, in F.E.A.R. Release some stress.

Longboarding.

I wanted to go out and play some basketball, but it's too cold. May go out for a haircut later, although it'll be strange spending time with my grandmother after last week. I can tough it, though. I'm thinking about taking up longboarding. I'd do skateboarding, but I have too much concern over my balls and such. All that flippin' and flyin' just isn't my bag, man.

I got sucked into seeing my dad tomorrow because my dumb ass couldn't keep track of what day it was. That'll be fun..."No, still no luck finding a job, dad." Lots and lots of fun.

Brooke.

Yesterday, I finally got out after a week of staying inside this house. I was like a baby just out of the womb, totally senseless. Oh, fuck it. I can't THINK!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!!!????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I CAN HARDLY FORM A SENTENCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!GODFUCKINGDAMNIT.

Zodiac.

Just finished reading Robert Graysmith's first book on the Zodiac killer. There's something strange about reading about unsolved crimes. It highlights how incapable we are controlling our society, I think. The use of aliases was annoying, but on the whole an enjoyable and sometimes scary read. Scary because it's all true.

I've realized that any higher ambitions I once hoped to attain while still living or being in constant contact with my family are unfeasable. I can't even stay in this house. I need a steady income. More friends to validate my existence. A car to break through to the other side. I need to go to college and relive high school the right way. I NEED PUSSY!!! to really validate my existence. I need to lose all this weight so I don't hate what I see in the mirror. God, how did everything go so wrong? 8 months in this room...cabin fever is a very real thing.

Championship sunday!

The championships are today, so that's something to look forward. I finally got the seat on my uncle's bike down, so I can now reasonably ride without the threat of serious groin injury. Well, that threat is always there, but less pronounced now.

I had a dream about Therese and Liz last night. Therese rejected me at the movies, I think, and Liz and I made out something horny on a basketball court. I've gotta get some.

Watching this always puts a smile on my face.

Halfway decent.

Today was okay. After last night, my grandmother wanted to meet my mother in the parking lot of the nearby Walgreens, just to talk about me. And unload some product. Thankfully my mother, who now feels as if I'm on her side in this family crisis because I have almost as strained a relationship with my grandmother as she does, brought her A-game mouth and didn't let the old bitch do much talking. When she was finished, all she got was some "he needs to do something with himself, go out, get out of his room" and things of that nature. It's been awhile seen I consciously appreciate something my mother's done for me. However, it's a short list.

Some more music after that. I seriously think too much of it numbs me somehow, because I always feel slightly dumber after listening to...anything. That's sad. Perhaps I need new earphones. Like the giant ones that are more like earmuffs.

A couple of episodes of 30 Rock. And a slew of comments on the a.v. club that pissed quite alot of hipster douchebags. If I ever make it and get my movies made, I wonder if they'll ever interview me? Delusions of grandeur, you ask? Not when you're talking about the a.v. club.

My mother got her unemployment check in the mail, so she finally got to go to WalMart and have some fun, buying her assorted cleaning products and canned goods. That left me alone for awhile, so I watched some porn on Spankwire. I was originally going to jerk off to this one video with Deveux (sp?), this MILF performer who's got the tightest body in porn I've seen yet. I mean, literally, tight! And a botched boob job apparently, because there is definitely something very wrong with her left breast...there's like this dent. It isn't obvious for very long, however the rest of the video was only subpar so I browsed around for something else.

I finally found something I could tug to, this video with this deep-voiced black dude and a mixed girl with giant fake titties (basketballs, but perfect) arguing about whether her tits were bigger than his dick. He was arguing for length, while she argued for volume. I don't much go for debates in my porn, but it was satisfactory, and she was a rather good actress compared to most porn stars. Anyways, she proceeded to give what looked like really good head, and then decided that she needed to see how it felt with him inside of her in order to decide the contest. It wasn't that good from this point and I felt like finally getting it over with, so I rewound it to where she first starts moaning and says, really cute, "I don't know if it's big enough, but it sure feels good!" I'd like to a girl to tell me that one day.

Too much time has passed and I'm still a virgin. I've only held a girl's hand on two separate occassions, and I only gave her a partial kiss (she backed away, not ready I suppose). Thankfully that happened before my 18th birthday, but still...I'm tired of waiting. I wonder when my parade's gonna come to town. Or when I'll find a satchel by the side of the road full of money and go to Nevada to lose it to a prostitute. Soon, hopefully.

More insanity to come...

Surfboard.

If I see one more advert with Toni Collette looking in the mirror, pushing up her tits, I'm gonna start shooting. No. More like I'll just find as many copies of Juno as I can urinate on all of them. And then, if I'm in the mood, I'll set them on fire. It's too bad that Diablo Cody still isn't toiling away in some strip-club in Minnesota. America would be the better for it.

My estate.

When I die, I want any money I have to be burned and my corpse to be propped up on the moon, facing away from Earth, with a cardboard sign reading, CERTAIN DEATH AHEAD.

It strikes me as both the most entertaining and morally responsible way to go out.

More insanity to come...

Today is the first day of the rest of my life!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

I wish everyone around me who has any kind of influence over me

were dead.

Small-town values.

They need to be sodomized by a baseball bat covered with barbed wire.
Imagine a small-town. Perfect, tranquil. Then a man comes there. He has AIDs, but the dormant kind. This man is very horny man. He is very rich and very charming. The ladies in this small-town are very desperate for some excitement. The man has very low standards.

Imagine the chaos. Imagine the beauty.

More insanity to come...

From executive producer Steven Spielberg

When I lose my virginity, I want it to be released to theaters nationwide, be "executive produced" by Steven Spielberg, and star Megan Fox.

First, cause I wanna fuck Megan Fox, or at least get a tug on my willy-nilly. But mostly because I'd like to see exactly what "From executive producer Steven Spielberg" means. Because from my understanding, that means that the guy either pays for the movie or profits from it in some way. I mean, how could it involve anything else?

I wanna see what that banner means in terms of involvement. Is Spielberg paying for a bit of it so it can pump up his standing on Forbes ("must defeat George, must defeat George!") when it makes money? Maybe. Or is it rather the "lazy producer" route, the one where somebody in the industry comes up with a one-sentence idea, makes a couple calls, and that's it til it's finished. I know Judd Apatow's that kind of producer. I have no reason to doubt Spielberg is one, too. Or that he does intend to retire in a shitty-film-blaze-of-glory. Go back to the well once more and let Indy raid the medicine cabinet. Sorry you were too dumb to accept that role in Traffic, Harrison, but maybe it's better if you all just left the franchise in the past and the DVD section where it belongs instead of winging it with a couple of half-digested ideas and enough money to feed many, many starving people. That is, it could've.

Get out of Spielberg's way, he's gotta do the Lincoln biopic! Because his life won't be legitimate until it's put up on the silver screen. What he did won't mean anything until Liam Neeson is nominated for his portrayel. No one will have heard of him until your advertising campaign allows the film to open No.#1 on whichever holiday season you choose. The name Abraham Lincoln won't mean anything until it's schmalzed, Hollywood style. Why, sir, if it weren't for you, everyone would just think it was a car company.

Think of all the hungry people who could be fed, who won't, because complacent people are too lazy to read a fucking history book.

More insanity to come...

This involuntary twitching of the muscles around my left eye?

I may be wrong, but it could have something to do with that pulsing pain that's been occuring on the back part of my brain for some time now. But I'm no doctor, so I may be wrong.

Something I have to look forward to: being a part of a select group who will most like suffer a Cluster headache at some point in the future. If you don't know, a Cluster headache is just about the most painful thing a human can go through, since everyone who has experienced it has said they can't think of anything worse. Guys who haven't experienced it may not be able to understand, but mothers will; it's a headache that hurts as much as childbirth. And it goes on for a much, much longer time. Much longer.

Unless you're that loose hippy chick who had an orgasm while giving birth. Call me crazy, but seeing that kinda turned me on.

More insanity to come...

For the love of god.

SHUT THE FUCK UP! Jesus fucking christ. How hard is it to accept the fact that my uncle, her brother, is a PARANOID schizophrenic?!?! THATS WHY HE THINKS PEOPLE ARE OUT TO GET HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GET FUCKING SMART!!!!!!!!!!!! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST IS WHAT I MEANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jesus. But no. Every single time he calls, it's always "E, mio". "E, mio". Whatever that is. And then it just gets louder and louder. Because the cops are after him. Because the doctors want to poison him. Every one wants him dead. AND THAT FUCKING MORON CUNT I CAME OUT OF CAN'T FUCKING GRASP THAT HE THINKS THIS WAY BECAUSE HE IS A PARANOID FUCKING SCHIZOPHRENIC!!!!!!!!!!! PARAFUCKINGNOID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! EVERY FUCKING NIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! LOUDFER AND LOUDER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 IT NEVER FUKING STOPS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!SO OF COURSE THE ONLY REASONABLE WAY TO DEAL WITH HIS RAVINGS IS TO ARGUE WITH HIM. Of course. That'll completely wipe out the mental ailment he's been suffering for nearly 40 years now.

I can't keep listening to that shit night after night. Every night, it's "E, mio." As if, forget that conversation last night where I called you a fucking piece of shit 3 times, hell, even threw in a couple of bastards to boot. Forget that. Who fucking cares. It's E, mio time! What? What's that? You shoulda never joined the military? What? You don't like the police? What? The doctors at the VA are a bunch of bastards? Really, really?

Oh, brother, the things you say sometimes. Someone's liable to think you're crazy!

It has been my belief for some time now that the majority of the people on this planet who are mute were stricken with this ailment unjustly, and that they are probably decent people who would only say nice things if they were somehow given the chance. My mother, however, is not one of those people, on both accounts.

More insanity to come...

Meltdown.

I have to define what is going on in this country, I don't know, for posterity, or just to make me feel better.

Clinton, maybe cause of some childhood psychosis, wanted to make it so everyone could have a house. So he and his congress pushed and pushed to have the banks and these mortgage houses/brokers/whatevers lower their standards so more and more people could get a home loan. The problem was because of this lowering of standards, more and more people who couldn't really pay for their homes thought they could of the type of loan they got: rather than a 30-year fixed rate mortgage, where you know what you're getting, no surprises, these new kinds of loans came out of the woodwork, ALT-Rs or arms or something. I'm not sure what they're called, but I know what they are: when you first get it the interest rates are incredibly low, and they gradually get higher and higher. Couple this with the fact that most people couldn't afford their homes with a fixed rate mortgage, and it's a recipe for disaster. The interest rates get higher, people can't pay back the banks, they default on their loans, no money for the banks, the mortgage bubble pops. It's simple to me at least.

So this whole mess was caused mostly by people refusal to think ahead and just basic stupidity and gullibility. Blame the politicians all you want; it's a lot easier to blame someone else than it is yourself.

Are porn stars easy to pick up?

I mean, considering you're a handsome, reasonably successful guy with a reasonable amount of game (and clean, of course). Is it pretty much a definite, then, that if you came upon one on the street that you could pretty much put it on auto-pilot and score? Is it a given that they're easy? I know it isn't a given for strippers, but they're not really in the same ballpark.

What I would give for just one evening with Catalina Cruz. I cannot go down my path from sexually-minded young man to where I am now without including her. What a lady.

Note: you ever see an above-average attractive women in any public setting with one or a few guys with a camera, whether or not they're filming her, it's porn. It isn't anything else. Porn.

Even though Jennifer Aniston really irritates me, I'd really love to fuck her brains out til I pass out. That's just me.

More insanity to come...

Max and me.

As far as I can remember, I've always felt inadequete when compared to my cousin, Max. And by that, I mean these last few years, since we've been teenagers.

Max. Superstar. The man. Max has got a job. He's working at Taco Bell. Max has got a car. He paid for it himself (maybe that's why it's a piece of shit). Max does good in school. Max is going to college. Max knows what he wants to do with his life. Max plays football. Max has a lot of friends. Max has friends with benefits. Max has girls showing up at his football games that he hardly knows who wear his number. Max doesn't have to worry.

You can probably assume at which point I stopped reciting what my grandmother is always telling and where I put in the stuff I know. And it's a pisser because I don't really dislike the kid. We've never been in a fight. We've always been friendly, although it's obvious the only edge I've got on him is my age, height, and lack of remorse.

The thing is I feel I've been made to hate him, or all he represents. Everything I didn't do. Why didn't I do it? There's too many things, it's too deep. What I know is, my uncle and his mom had what's called a "rocky" marriage that ended in a "bloody" divorce at about the same age I was when my parents divorced. Same kinda situation, except Max saw his dad much more infrequently. Like never. All that parental alienation syndrome stuff Alec Baldwin talks about, my uncle went through it. He hardly ever saw his son. He saw many shrinks. He took a lot of meds.

One day I went out with him somewhere in his truck, and all during the drive I heard this something moving around in the glove compartment. Clack-clack-clack. I didn't ask, and he didn't acknowledge it. After a while we stopped at a convenience store so he could get a drink. I stayed in the truck.

While he was inside, I checked the glove compartment. In it was a .357 magnum, one of the biggest fucking things I've ever seen (it may have been another model, something bigger than what I thought it was). Like, it hardly fit in the compartment, and the compartment was huge. It was so big and looked so heavy I thought I might not be able to lift the compartment closed and my uncle would return and see me messing with it and use it against. All the red that would result of it filled my mind. My uncle's an ex-marine; you never know with those guys. They don't come back the same way they went in (they have the highest suicide-rate among the different branches, incidentally).

My mother later told me he kept it because of the fear that his ex-wife would hire someone to rub him out. I don't know if he still has it, if his current wife, a much nicer person, would approve.

Anyways, Max never really saw his dad. His dads were all whoever his mom was schtupping at the time, sometimes even who she married. Sometimes she would go out of town for a few days and leave him on his own, at around the age of ten. Maybe other kids are used to that, but it shocks me. That's more my thing, though.

Despite what I hear that his mother did to him, though, something worked, because now he's turned out to be a pretty good person, popular-wise. I have a feeling that time she did spend with him consisted of beatings that shaped him into a hard worker, and compliments that shaped him into a confident boy. If my mother ever did any of the later, it wasn't with me there.

So how did he turn out to be such a success, and how did I turn into such a loser? We've got a similar background, similar looks, similar brains. The answer's probably not as hard to sniff out. I know it, and in my poor writing probably already revealed it. I don't know.

I hope soon I get the chance to awe him. To have for once him look at me and mutter, "lucky bastard." Once.

More insanity to come...

This is interesting.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=taES2dh_j58 Part One.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCswgPZiw44 Part Two.

I've yet to see The Larry Sanders Show. I want to, though.

Dead.

I've got that feeling of deadness again. What I mean, my brain feels like it's on neutral. Like my skull is empty and yet I'm somehow able to keep walking and talking. I remember that episode of AHH! Real Monsters where the girl monster (can't remember name) lost her brain but was still alive. That has always stayed with me.

I spent about a half an hour listening to "It's the same old song" by The Four Tops over and over again, based on a recommendation by the a.v. club. On Twitter I guess Mzzz. Tasha Robinson is too good to respond to my guess that she resembles Ann Rice because of her voice, which is all I've seen. Fuck her, and fuck them with their high-hat elitism. Fuck wilco.

Dear goddd, my mother is on the phone with this stupid fucking moron friend from Connecticut who's obviously lost a couple marbles. Fucking looney has to call every fucking two weeks and talk about every single fucking thing; right now they've been talking for five minutes about the use of our heater. Dear FUCK they're talking about my dead dog again, jesus they've talked about this so many times in the last few months, god that fucking cunt has nothing better to do than bring up horrible memories. It's too bad that plane that landed in the Hudson River didn't crash right into her fucking big mouth in fucking podunk Torrington, Conn. But my mother certainly doesn't refuse her the opportunity to talk about it. My mother never refuses the opportunity to talk at all, period. My mother needs to move out so I can start enjoying life again.

I swear to fucking god if that bitch calls back in another week and starts asking about my dead dog as if it's fucking news to her, I'm gonna go up there and just start fucking shooting and I won't fucking stop til her big fucking mouth is full of lead and the rest of her full of holes.

When my dog died, I saved four pictures of him and me when we were both little. Now I've lost them. He's buried about 25 yards from where I'm sitting right now.

More insanity to come...

Obama can go fuck himself.

I'm tired of hearing whatever new inspirational bullshit he has to say. How he ran for president for his girls. Fuck you, Mr. Oprah, the white house isn't your personal high-end day-care.

The people who think he's the second coming of Christ can go fuck themselves, too. The only reasons he won was because of white guilt, black empowerment, and cheap rhetoric. Fuck all this inspirational bullshit. Inspirational doesn't change the environmental crisis. Inspirational doesn't put people back in their homes. Inspirational doesn't find a cure for malaria. Inspirational can go fuck itself. Real, physical people fix those problems. Not words. Actions. That's why Jesus sacrificed himself.

It only highlights how desperate people are some meaning to be injected into their lives. Thanks to MTV and proliferation of celebrity news, everyone wants to be famous, and when virtually all of them find that won't happen, they're pissed cause of the "normal", i.e. boring, life they'll have to lead. God forbid hard work that WILL pay off ever comes into the equation.

Fuck Obama. Fuck his little girls, and fuck his little utopia where everyone gets to go to college and get a Ph.D and be on the cover of Time. Dipshit, who's gonna fucking serve you your fries, or lay brick, or fly fucking planes? Enough with this American Dream bullshit. Nowadays it seems most who attain it didn't do so through hard work. At least everyone else in the world is smart enough to know you can't fucking predict the future.

I hope this country really goes in the shitter with this guy in office. Then maybe voters will be a little less willing to vote in the prettiest pageant on show. Maybe.

More insanity to come...

The Bind.

I'm in a bind: I have to shit and there's a drunk in the bathroom working on the tub. Not right now, but he's in and out. I don't know the guy, but he looks worse than I do on my worst day. Now my grandmother's in there, leaving one of her patented old-people dumps. They're indescribable.

I have a feeling the rest of the day is going to be peppered with things that inconvenience me.

More insanity to come...

Another day with grandmother.

Another morning peaking out my window to see if she's arrived yet. Another morning carefully walking tightrope between idle small-talk and serious questions about the future and my supposed lack of ambition. Only one day left before she'll try and wrangle me out to go look for work, and I still hate what I see in the mirror.

I'm not sure if my relunctance is truly based on my displeasurable appearance or my chronic procrastination. Likely both. What I definitely know is, if I saw an attractive girl and I was comfortable in my own skin, nothing would stop me from flirting with her in some way, even if the chances of rejection were high. Not the way I am now. And what I'm pretty sure of is, I'm not so out-of-shape that I'd be a poor worker, so with a shave and a haircut for me I doubt I'd have a problem going for some job interview if it were not for my procrastination. So I suppose they are mutually exclusive.

Last night I had quite an interesting dream. My mother gave birth to an undeveloped fetus, and then handed it to me. I proceeded to insert in my asshole and before I knew it I could feel it's (very strong) heartbeat in my stomach. Quite an epic dream it was, as plenty of time passed with me walking around, going from place to place, with this extra heartbeat inside of me. I don't remember getting bigger, just that thump, thump, thump. And then at the end I went to the mall with a friend, and when we left, he asked where the baby was, and I realized that extra heartbeat was no longer inside of me. We searched the mall in vain, and left. For some reason there was a epilogue with baby and a teen fighting on an escalator, the baby being thrown on the descending steps, and then mangled in some way when the escalator reached the bottom. Thankfully, my mind's eye cut away.

I was understandably freaked out when I awoke. And I was pissed, because I have so few dreams that I remember fondly. These dreams mostly all involve a girl from my past, whom I see no more, and spending time with her. Usually they are much more flirtatious than they ever were in reality. Like Therese. A couple of weeks ago she made an appearance in my slumber-cinema, smiling in my company more often than I ever remember her doing so before. As if she actually enjoyed being with me rather than finding it an obligation to not crush this poor boy's heart even more.

I woke up and realized that all I have are these memories and the few dreams I am allowed. I can edit them to my liking, imagining a false truth about a relationship that never was every night as I try to get to sleep. Imagining myself effortlessly pleasing these beautiful girls who would never ever thinking of breaking my heart because I courted them so perfectly. Deluding myself.

Or I can imagine a future date where I run into them serendipitously, and they are taken aback by how much I've changed, what a better specimen of the XY chromosone I am, and they have no choice but to fall in love with the boy that years ago they either rejected or just ignored. The difference between that and the past is that these hopes may come true. May. As in very unlikely, but it's always possible. But then I remember how useless planning was in the past, when nothing ever went according to plan, and yet I kept hoping it would. All the while these other assholes kept spouting shit like You can't plan anything. Fuck that shit, even though it's true. I'll probably never even see those girls again.

More insanity to come...

Some good news.

Also, Katy Perry may not be dead, but Steve Jobs falling ill will do for now. What does this mean for the future of America, that the harbinger of technological-advancement-exploited-for-capitalistic-gain may not live to showcase yet another spin on the phone that can hook up to the Internet? Possibly that the fad will die out and people will realize that they don't really need a mini-laptop in the pocket at all times, and a simple cell will do. And if the fates really wanna please me they'll have us all realize how unnessecary the technology is (expect for the people who are spying on you) and that, in fact, the world's rotation was not stunted until cell phones came along and fixed it. That's right! A little Big Brother tracking you at all times may not be so smart after all!

More insanity to come...

Katy Perry makes my mind vomit.

Sometimes when I look in the toilet and am able to spot exactly where the pop culture is at that point during it's circling of the drain, I wonder how much quicker it can go down. Since there's no question that it is going down, you have to concern yourself with the speed and force. And this is a turd with a rocket on it's back.

It's just, I only end up hating America a little bit more when the big song of the summer was only big because it pretended to be homoerotic, thus upsetting the many people out there who still consider homosexuality a hot-button issue, as opposed to, say, the resurgence of malaria, or false flag operations. The song was "I Kissed a Girl" and it was all the rage only because of the risque-ness. Is that where we are at? Forget substance, does it look offensive? That's like buying an SUV just because it's vomit-green.

Transgression is not progression. That's something many people in the entertainment industry would do good to learn. Because sooner or later, something's going to happen that causes every single American to question why they haven't done everything in their power to be as smart as they can possibly be, rather than sitting on their couches and waiting for something to come along and "push the boundary". Who knows, maybe it'll come about when sociologists actually have the balls to say people's failings ARE DUE TO THEIR PARENTS POOR JOB AS PARENTS. (Of course, that won't happen as long as legitimate Freudian problems are still referred to as "daddy issues" or some other punch-line). You see, when parents actually consider having kids when they'd be better-suited for it instead whenever they have an accident, and then refuse to let the television set do their job for them, maybe children will learn about leading substance-filled lives, and appreciating substance-filled things, rather than being like totally into this song cause like she's talking about this lesbo moment she had, OMG!

As usual, all of society's problem's can be traced to The Beatles, or Elvis (at least The Rolling Stones did a good job with their spin on black music). I don't know. The sooner Katy Perry is killed in a plane crash and mourned for a day on E!, the happier I'll be. Yes, my happiness is dependant on the death of someone.

More insanity to come...

When the phone rings I hear the ice cream truck coming...

I am fat.

I don't know how else to say it. In fact, I won't even try. I am fat. Not obese, but overweight. I don't even think I could convince anyone that I'm just husky. Over the phone.

How could this have happened? At a younger and prouder time in my life, this was never a concern. I was always active, and then I was introduced to the wonderful world of cheetos and video games, and yet I still stayed thin. With the right amount of clothes on I could even be considered muscular.

Now that I've come to this realization, I must face the fact that it has nothing to do with my metabolism or my willpower, because back in the day I would eat just as much as I do now. It's because I am a lazy fuck. The only reason I wasn't like this before was at least when I went to school, I walked. Alot. Hell, I even put in a little running. First, from hoodlums, then, when I grew a pair, just for the hell of it. I even prided myself on the fact I could outrun actual runners. You know, the guys who win gold medals. Them in high school, but still - I was fast.

And now I'm a young Hutt, which always makes sense because of how corrupted my soul is. I am lazy, plain and simple, and that's because no one ever made me get off my ass and do some good ol' fashioned American work. All that salt of the earth shit. Elbow grease. I don't even think I've ever sweated from my elbows!

The point is, this has been going on for too long. And it's time for a change. Too much time has slipped by while I took the easy way out, the path of least resistence. Too many opportunities to grind myself and prove that I could hold my own missed to rather do something that deep down was only meant to pass the time. But not anymore. I look out on the horizon, and don't see the same me, permantly attached to his keyboard, starved for attention. I don't need it. Because that was the old me. The new me gets his ass up and burns calories! The new me gets up and fights fires! The new me pulls 18-wheelers all by himself!

America, are you ready for a change? I am, and I will.

...Eh, who am I kidding. When I die they're probably gonna find me in this seat, my hands stuck to the keyboard, if one of them isn't hanging by my side, holding a gun. People don't change. At least, not after just writing some inspirational paragraph. Or having a nervous breakdown in the bathroom, and resolving to not let this happen again, ever again. Just saying it means nothing. It takes a long time. It takes life.

But I really cannot stand this disgusting fat-body. I'm gonna have to do something about that. Where did I put that box of tapeworms?

More insanity to come...

Think about it, people!

My mother's been crying all day over problems she creates for herself. She just reacted to some beef jerkey commercial with a bear with the kind of enthusiasm children in affluent families on Christmas morning would find unsettling. She has thought for some time that there is something seriously wrong with me.

I shouldn't feel bad about the fact that I want to defile the (hopefully) virginal Miley Cyrus on national television and thus degrade what so many seemingly innocent young girls hold dear, should I? Oh, well. If she really does consider Hillary Duff a role model, it won't be long before little Hannah Montana does the cover of Maxim herself.



More insanity to come...

Passerby were amazed by the large amount of blood...

It's 6:50 pm. I've decided to begin blogging, regardless of who reads it(if anyone at all ever does), for my own therapeutic benefit as well as personal amusement. They say you can't please everybody, so I've elected to not even try.

For some reason I've had the desire for some time to recount my life so far, so now's as good a time as any. I was born nearly 19 years ago and given the most childish name I can imagine. As a child I enjoyed lego's, movies, cartoons (especially Batman: The Animated Series, bar none the best adaptation of the Batman legend), my sega genesis, while my parents enjoyed arguing, hitting each other, and forgetting to inspire confidence in their only son. I attended EL elementary school and a short time after that they divorced, leaving me living with my mother and seeing my father on Wednsdays and the weekends.

I can remember having many, many friends who all seemed to be my best friend. I was swept up in the Pokemon craze as everyone else was (so deep I was just as much an expert with the ripoff cards as the real ones), but soon just settled for the Gameboy games. Then it was football cards; I can remember one of the all-time great injustices occuring when I left my prized collection in my bag at the cubby room at the after-school park I attended back then (more on that later) to go play basketball, and afterwards I returned to find them missing, including my favorite, Kurt Warner. So even at a young age I was already learning how cruel the fates can be.

I was an usually precocious child. I remember flirting with girls while other boys still thought they had cooties. My first crush was a girl named Alex, Alex with freckles and braces I think and beautiful red hair. I call it a crush now but didn't then; all it was then was a pretty girl who I imagined being the only other survivor of a vampire apocalyspe, and we would survive together, in love (this amazes me now, since I hadn't then and still haven't read or seen "I Am Legend" - I was infringing on so many copyrights without even knowing it). Nothing ever became of it, since I was a kid and didn't know what to do with it.

The first number I got was a girl I vaguely remember whom I'll call "Mary". Mary, on the last day of fourth grade, gave me a folded-up piece of paper with 7 digits written on the inside and smiled as she did so. I remember not asking my father nor my mother about it, and just ignored it. I still had no idea what was going on. The next year Mary didn't return to EL; thinking about it now, I shall boost my ego by concluding it was because she was irrevocably distraught from my not responding.

I also developed an early fascination with large breasts (although now I am ashamed how low my standards were back then). I remember one girl, "Marlene", who had the biggest rack in the whole school, and I was primed to feel them up. One day, at the park, I simply ran up to her and gave them a few good honks, and ran away. She was surprised but didn't tell on me, probably because of what a smooth charmer I was.

I remember being able to draw. Well. I remember playing Doom endlessly in the rec room. I remember wearing a confederate bandanna one day and not realizing why some people were offended. I remember the fire drills. I remember fucking OWNING at four-square. I remember watching sesame street while eating mcdonalds hash browns in the morning in the room designated for early drop-off. I remember running up to another girl and kissing her, and then not running away immediately afterwards because she was not mad. I regret not continuing to do those things as I got older.

I remember a lot of things, but my ass is starting to numb from sitting in this shitty office chair for so long, so I'll reserve them for later.

More insanity to come...