Tuesday, May 25, 2004

off like a prom dress.

vacation time is beautiful time. a time of idyllic beautifulness. and im off to sunny...seattle. what the fuck ever. at least i dont have to be at work for a full five days. and a bad day fishing is still better than a good day at work. word.

can you believe 'beautifulness' is a real word? i cant. thank the gods for spell-check.

Monday, May 17, 2004

you are so fucking wrong.

what. so you thought you were going to occupy my airspace for the first time months. and then you thought i would be ok with this. and then you went so far as to joke about it with mutual friends. on how you might 'get some' this weekend.

i cant decide if im more irked by your stupidity or your hubris.

the only thing you will be poking is the hornet's nest of my rage.
the only 'some' you will 'get' is if you use two hands instead of one.

now go find a tail, put it between your legs, and get the fuck out of my town.

Friday, May 14, 2004

chugging the nyquil

chain-smoking. waiting. thinking of things to do to make myself busy. i dont have to be busy cause its my day off, for chrissake. fuck the mid-life crisis. im having a huge fucking wigg-out-cause-im-not-even-25-yet-and-im-shitting-my-pantalones crisis. what the fuck am i doing with my life. the simple answer being:

not a goddamn thing.

i can write as many snarky mean-spirited things as i want on this site. it does not take me any closer to having, at the very least, a goal in life. i really and truly do not have one. not at all. not a motherfuckin goal in sight. im drifting like that poor bastard in the ancient mariner poem.

and theres no big fat dead bird around my neck either. which would be a nice, albeit stinky, excuse. why cant all the things im interested in be actual job opportunities? nobody wants to listen to some pished off bastard whine about their lot in life, but im really fucking good at it. i could win the really pished off bastard about their lot in life olympics. gold motherfuckin medal. bitch.

working in a goddamn cubicle for the next 40 years of my life is my version of super-hell. and my boss would be this evil fuck-tard that says "m'kay" alot and asks me to work on saturdays. i would rather die. alot. and then maybe be resuscitated and die some more.

my dad worked a shit god-forsaken job to provide for his family and his ailing wife because he had to. dude busted his ass and sold the best parts of his youth to a fucking butt-monkey job, and the raging douche-lickers that he worked for never even recognized or gave him credit for being the hard-working, ass-kicking, bad-ass motherfucker he is. and im supposed to enter the work force with this as my background? i think motherfuckin not.

but then theres my brother. busting his ass in an almost identical cubicle. about to get married and strapped down in much the same manner as my father. and im like, goddamnit. no. this will not be my life.

so what'll it be then. sucking the corporate teet? living on the street? shit if i know.

these and other thoughts regularly contribute to my foul moods. obviously.

Thursday, May 13, 2004


there is no sex in my violence.

dear guy who stole my bike seat,

it was good of you to leave your really crappy trek seat in place of my really awesome gary fischer one. it has just the right amount of aesthetically pleasing rust on it, lending my bike a quaint redneck credibility.

but, guy who stole my bike seat, i did not desire you to make this trade. i liked my seat just fine, though, i understand you were selflessly considering my best interests. and for that i thank you. but, without your help, my efforts to embody that which is a red-neck have been entirely successful due to my firm commitment to the fostering of a warm home for cars on cinder-blocks, dead refrigerators with cats nesting in them, and brown christmas trees in june.

in short, though i appreciate your efforts to further cultivate my inner redneck, i am not at this time in need of your services. therefore, i stole back my bike seat yesterday.

in truth you have taught me much about the inherent stupidity of the southeastern united states redneck. no other anthropological group i have yet observed has displayed the brazen contempt for common sense that is a hallmark of your kind. i find it truly fascinating that you would steal my bike seat, replace it with your own, and then continue to park your bicycle at the same bike rack as i do every day.

now that i have both seats in my possession, i will take great pleasure in imagining you biking home with a rod up your ass. if god is good and is a loving god and if that god should find favor in me and shine his light upon me therein, perhaps he will allow me to witness this spectacle first-hand. if god is the angry vengeful god i keep hearing about, he should be totally down with this.

in closing, karma's a bitch.

love, me.

evil bitch-monster from hell

so. why do i yell at perfectly nice people when im inebriated. cant i yell at people i hate. no. i pick on the cool people. perhaps getting black-out drunk on a fairly regular basis isn't the best of ideas.

quothe the immortal colin farrel:

"I ended up on a shrink's couch and he told me to write down how much I did in a week. Twenty E's, four grams of coke, six of speed, half an ounce of hash, three bottles of Jack Daniels, 12 bottles of red wine, 60 pints and 280 fags. He looked at me and said: 'No wonder you're depressed.' I was going one way - down. I was self-destructive, still am."

one of my favorite games is to do stupid shit just to see if i can rectify whatever situation ive be-fucked myself into. like when youre a kid and your parents tell you not to touch something because its hot. and then you touch it anyway, (obviously), and spend the next three hours bewailing your swollen, pissed off finger and rubbing it with aloe. i do that alot. in the sense that i insist upon engaging in questionable activities that will probably burn my metaphorical finger.

most of my family ends up kicking it due to cancer, and/or drinking way too fucking much. so i, of course, have to smoke and drink lots just to show up those pussies. why cant i just find a good hobby. i hear knitting has a lot to offer.

the crux of the monkey is a little deeper though. if i was to ever try my bestest at something, and not have any excuse for my sucking at it, (hangover, black lung...), i think i would cry a lot. its like, 'hey dudes. look how fast i am and how decent my grades are even though i drink like a wino. you should all be in total awe of my abilities'. when really, im just too frightened of the prospect that i wont be any faster, or smarter, or better, so i need this bull-shit excuse to fall back on. i am staggeringly afraid of failure. so much so, that i overwhelmingly prefer to fuck myself over rather than find out that im not good enough. and that gosh darnit people dont like me.

being a fuck-up is somehow easier than the constant pressure of trying to be perfect, and berating yourself when perfection doesn't happen. surprise.

Thursday, May 06, 2004

running vs. beer drinkage,

the eternal conflict.

ok. im going to have this one beer. and then im going home. just one. maybe ill run afterwards. beer running is fun. hydrating and anesthetizing. i could still be so totally productive after just this one beer.

what? youre getting a shot? dude. i want one too. aaargh. my beer is almost gone. what am i going to chase this tasty shot with? all right goddamnit. gimme another beer. fuck.

uh. can i bum one of those excellent cigarettes? sweet. thanks dude.

*prolonged drinking ensues*

awright yous maggots. les get nekkid, run around campush and fuck up some nerdsss...

and then you find yourself running around, wearing an orange parking cone as a hat and stealing road signs from the nerd school across the street.