Today is Fat Tuesday. I made a bet that I could give up booze for the 40 days of lent. Since I don’t want to get gang banged I am taking things seriously. I am not drinking, 40 days of not drinking. The drinking has commenced.
And I am still winning Brian Brennan’s Point Merit System!
I’ve had some things to work out
Sometimes
perfect moments
grow within
the realm of chaos.
Working best around those
time traveling lapses,
Cherishing them, working around
all the obstacles like the rythm of
Musetta’s waltz.
One-two-three.
In those lapses,
you can get lost
or found,
when time freezes
there is a certain unrequited
clarity.
She speaks in differential equations
along the border
of the tropic of cancer
as the heat from
inside her melts away
her Logic
and fortified
formulas.
Once established
and favored for their accuracy
are now,
failing completely.
The maddening heat
it enraptures her
mind
and rises to the occasion,
searing names into her thigh
trading in books and eye glasses
for garters & panty hose.
Upgrading the market value
of her body
& giving up the path
of educational
enlightenment.
Four score and seven years ago
she wasn’t quite the whore,
not quite.
It was a slow jaunt to
the garden
sinking smoothly
along the path
of once perfected cobblestone,
to grandmother’s house.
until of course, she lost
her way to the garden
and wandered into the forbidden
forest of the South
where she found a lone
Magnolia
and couldn’t help
fingering the edges
–just a little.
I am in a very important race. Really important. Infact, all other facets of my life are being dictated by the points race. Basically, among my group of friends–there is a plethora of awesome and because of this we have to see who’s the MOST awesome. So far, I am in the lead with 480 points. Christen is in a strong second with 185 points. There are some people behind us, but I doubt they matter since they barely have like 100 points. I am really far ahead because I did a fair number of insane things this weekend. Things I have decided not to mention because people might decide to go ahead & press charges, and because sometimes my mom reads this blog and she doesn’t need to know about those types of details. Although, I will admit that I get to win–hands down–if I manage to play “Danger Zone” from Top Gun while having sex. I am currently calling up my friend Jennifer so I can get my copy of the Top Gun Soundtrack back ASAP.
I am going to fucking win.
The end.
I’d dropped the giant wine glass filled generously on the floor in Heywood Davenport’s living room. I watched it tumble from my grasp and splash all over the multi-colored Chinese inspired rug. It splattered like the blood from a gunshot wound to the head; to the heart. I paused as the scene slowly began to register with me. I fell to my knees and started sopping up the mess with the napkin previously housing my hors d’ouevres. I pressed and pounded into the rug, a slow motion exhibit for wandering eyes around the room, as the burgundy rage seeped through the napkin dissolving it completely. “Oh Miriam!” Dash Edwards said as he turned away from the mystery of the tarot cards he’d picked. In that moment the glue used to keep everything in my life together evaporated like the napkin. I slumped over, sobbing and screaming, wishing for death.
I wish you knew I hate you. I wish it wasn’t true, how I miss you. I wish you’d die of dysentary. I wish there was a beaten path for us. I wish you’d let me move on. I wish you’d do something drastic instead of just making sure I still care. I wish you’d realize how crazy this whole thing makes me. I wish you knew in my head most men cannot measure up to you. I wish they knew this too. I wish you knew that I am not waiting anymore. I wish you knew how you will settle for the opposite of me in the end. I wish she would come along and make you her problem. I wish she knew how I will still be able to have you if I want. I wish you knew how all this insanity, this self inflicted grief makes me that more inclined to go home with them while thinking about you. I wish there were more to it than stolen moments and hours of conversation. I wish you would shout into my face how you felt. I wish there was less of me to write this. I wish there were more of you to respond. I wish this didn’t sound so pathetically dramatic. I wish you were here. I wish I’d never met you. I wish you didn’t fit so perfectly. I wish I could make you stop because it hurts so good.
I am short on time so I’m gonna make this quick. When I broke my neck back in 2001, I made this insane list of shit that I would do when I recovered. Now that I am recovered, I’ve been doing all sorts of shit off that list. Of which, one of the things was dancing on a bar. Let me tell you, it is awesome, but not nearly as awesome as it should be. At this point, it’s definitely played out. I guess if you do it in the very least, once a month, it loses its magic. On that note, I danced on the bar for-like-ever last night. At some point, I was wearing a fuzzy black angora hat. This guy kept harassing me about it. So I told him about it. I realized it was his in to talk to me. So I made it an out. I said I’d draw him a diagram of it if he needed. Then when he said it would help I told him to just get a picture of an old black lady’s pussy because it is basically the same thing. He walked off immediately after. After that, I did a shot to Chuck Norris’s deceased brother Weiland Norris. He was “cut down by the Viet Cong just shy of his 28th birthday.” RIP Weiland, RIP. And sorry about laughing so hard during the toast to you.
In case you missed it last year. Here is my award winning essay entitled, “Valentines Day Causes Herpes”:
I am really excited to be home right now in my room, in my bed, on my computer. I spend most weekends gallivanting with my friends, living my life, and getting myself into terrible amounts of trouble. I love three a.m. as I lie in bed and rub my feet together in an even rhythm until I fall asleep or start a fire. Most days at three a.m. people are sleeping, resting to go to work. Most days, I am sobering up, or hanging out, or writing furiously. Sometimes at three a.m. I am even sneaking out, but only when I am sure you have hit really deep sleep. I pick up my things and I go home–so I can get back into my bed and lie there thinking for hours and hours on end. Somedays, I get really angry and we have a fight. I refuse to sleep at your house. I refuse to drive home and I lock myself in the car and go to sleep, tucking my knees under my chin in the fetal position. I fade away in a parked car on some side street in Hollywood. I erase the significance of my exsistence. You go back into the house and call my phone. You tell me I am insane and Probably going to get raped. I want you to come back outside and do something outrageous like scream into the streets You’re crazy! I love you! with the sort of sinking pain that swells at the end of each syllable of every word you say. It’s like writing my name in your blood–without the mess. Instead, we stay on the phone. You talk and I cry. You tell me to come inside and stop playing games. Game over. I get out of the car, stumbling onto the asphalt, scraping my hands and knees. I lie there momentarily sobbing in silence, my chest heaving, cursing the world in my head. My phone rings again. I sit up to answer it managing a tiny Hello into the receiver. I should have known you were going to keep playing games. Just stay in the car psycho blasts into my ear drum. Stay there for fucking ever. I am sick of this game. I am going to bed. Before I can say a word you’ve hung up. I lie on the ground again, this time, moaning loudly & letting all the pain rush from my head, my hands, my body into the shadowed monsters of my billowing echoes. Then I fall asleep.
I’ve been reading Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs* a collection of short essays by author Chuck Klosterman. Now that I am more than half way through the book I’ve realized two basic truths. I would go out of my way to fuck this man, and I am the kinda girl that would read someone’s short essays and want to fuck who I think they are in my head. These kinds of “truths” could be enough to drive a normal person to kill him or herself, but I, of course, am not a “normal” person. Klosterman comes across as a sort of “voice” for what he considers “The Cool Generation,” which is essentially everyone I have ever met within the realms of my own peer group. I’ve also heard this “Cool Generation” be referred to as the “Lost Generation,” but I never really gave it much validity as we’re not so much lost as we are present. And we are certainly present in what we consider to be “cool” and a main part of being cool is the decision to mock the world around us as we act like we are living outside the realms of “everyday life” because we party all night long and still can manage to get up and deal with our nine-to-five life.
This entire rant about adopted terminology for my generation actually has very little to do with what I intended to write about in accordance with Chuck Klosterman. With very little doubt I can say with complete and total validity that Klosterman may be one of the few writers I have come across that is obviously crazier—in a wacky sense and brilliant—in the textbook sense. And it makes me want to have sex with him very, very badly. While reading his book he puts forth a set of questions which he poses to potential friends and partners. These are a set of twenty-three questions that are insanely genius and I have put enough thought into them that I need to answer them in full—in the case that Kloseterman may stumble upon my blog one day and can realize for himself the potential I have in his life, or the lack thereof.
The twenty-three questions Chuck Klosterman asks everyone he meets (and in this case a person he has not met) in order to decide if he can really love them:
1. Let us assume you met a rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five really simple tricks—he can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar vein. These are his only tricks and he can’t learn any more; he can do only these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he’s doing these five tricks with real magic. It’s not an illusion; he can actually conjure the bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He’s legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence. Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?
I hate to admit this, but in a way I believe that this magician is incredibly more impressive than Albert Einstein. I realize that Einstein like totally did awesome stuff for the advancement of mathematics and the atom bomb and I feel like I should be looking all this up before I type it because maybe my brain has got it all discombobulated, but I honestly don’t care if I am correct in regards to stupid trivia on Albert Einstein. Whatever it was that Einstein did, it was not making a fucking rabbit appear out of a fucking hat. Seriously, how awesome would that trick be if you had a dude to take drinking with you and he really was making the fucking rabbit appear. Tricks like that never get old—especially if they are done with REAL FUCKING MAGIC. Whatever it is that Einstein did it was not fucking magic, just logic and basic smarts. I know a lot of really smart people and they are usually boring and do not have the ability to perform real feats of magic. For real feats of magic—I would kill your mom, or maybe even my own. Magic is awesome and stuff.
2. Let us assume a fully grown, completely healthy Clydesdale horse has his hooves shackled to the ground while his head is held in place with thick rope. He is conscious and standing upright, but completely immobile. And let us assume that—for some reason—every political prisoner on earth (as cited by amnesty international) will be released from captivity if you can kick this horse to death in less then twenty minutes. You are allowed to wear steel-toed boots. Would you attempt to do this?
I have attempted to do more for a hell of a lot less. I should say, the reasons behind why I’d do it are kinda insane, but we are talking about me here. More than getting political refugees released, I would kick the shit out of this horse because I would like to brag about kicking the fuck out of a Clydesdale horse while drinking in random bars. If I don’t fare well, and the horse gets loose and stomps on me—please remember that I kinda still think horses are awesome and stuff and I didn’t actually mean it any harm. I just wanted to brag. Also, I would be more than swell if you would send those flower wreaths that horses get when they win the big race. Death is kinda like winning the big race. Especially, when the race is bludgeoning a horse to death with steel toed boots.
3. Let us assume there are two boxes on a table. In one box, there is a relatively normal turtle; in the other, Adolf Hitler’s skull. You have to select one of these items for your home. If you select the turtle, you can’t give it away and you have to keep it alive for two years; if either of these parameters are not met, you will be fined $999 by the state. If you select Hitler’s skull, you are required to display I in a semi-prominent location in your living room for the same amount of time, although you will be paid a stipend of $120 per month for doing so. Display of the skull must be apolitical. Which option do you select?
I am not particularly responsible. I am guessing the turtle would die before the two years are up, and although I would be able to pay the stupid $999 dollars—there is no way I would want to. Moreover, I think having to house Hitler’s skull would be kinda awesome and a really neat conversation piece for parties. I would invite people over and start drinking and then slyly bring up the fact that I am, “Stuck with the head of Adolf Hitler.” And I would sigh a lot after I said it and generally act bored with the idea, even though it makes me want to do a lot of KUNG FU type stuff because it is so bizarre. I also think that it would start so many catastrophic fights among my friends that I would need to have it. Plus, $120 bucks a month to just keep it there is pretty awesome. I would like to attach it to some sort of mannequin body and put really sexy underwear on the mannequin and really liven up Hitler’s image. Also, I like looking at really sexy underwear. I would always play black gospel music in the room housing the Hitler skull. I think it would be amusing. It might be a hell of a lot better if I lived on a house boat on the Mississippi. For all intensive purposes, pretend like I do. AWESOME!
4. Genetic engineers at Johns Hopkins University announce that they have developed a so-called “super-gorilla.” Though the animal cannot speak, it has a sign language lexicon of over twelve thousand words, an I.Q. of almost 85, and—most notably—a vague sense of self awareness. Oddly, the creature (who weighs seven hundred pounds) becomes fascinated by football. The gorilla aspires to play the game at its highest level and quickly develops the rudimentary skills of a defensive end. ESPN analyst Tom Jackson speculates that this gorilla would be “borderline unblockable” and would likely average six sacks a game (although Jackson concedes the beast might be susceptible to counters and misdirection plays). Meanwhile, the gorilla has made it clear he would never intentionally injure any opponent. You are commissioner of the NFL: Would you allow this gorilla to sign with the Oakland Raiders?
Of course I would allow the gorilla to play. Hell, it appears the gorilla has an IQ similar to many of the people in most of the red states. In that way, it’s fans can completely relate to him and he could make a shit load of money from just the advertising. Also, it would bring a new stigma to football, and probably sell the shit out of tickets. Besides, it is fucking Oakland and no one cares about them anyways. They should probably start winning. Also, nothing sounds funnier to me than the idea of a 700 pound gorilla getting embarrassed because it fucked up a play and then becoming incredibly despondent over the whole scenario. Also, because my friend Brian said, “Well, duh, of course I would allow it to play. I just wouldn’t drink with it.”
5. You meet your soul mate. However, there is a catch: Every three years, someone will break both of your soul mate’s collarbones with a Crescent wrench, and there is only one way you can stop this from happening: You must swallow a pill that will make every song you hear—for the rest of your life—sound as if it is being performed by the band Alice in Chains. When you hear Creedence Clearwater Revival on the radio, it will sound (to your ears) like it’s being played by Alice in Chains. If you see Radiohead live, everyone of their tunes will sound like it’s being covered by Alice in Chains. When you hear a commercial jingle on TV, it will sound like Alice in Chains; if you sing to yourself in the shower, your voice will sound like deceased Alice vocalist Layne Staley performing a capella (but it will only sound this way to you). Would you swallow the pill?
I was 13 the last time I remember Alice in Chains being remotely popular. They were pretty alright, but I could only stand listening to them for so long. I mean, I respect the idea of my soul mate, but no one says I actually love or even like being around my soul mate. What happens if I am totally fucking annoyed by my soul mate because they are perfect for me in most ways—which should make this person a total fucking asshole. Do I want to go slowly insane by being forced to hear everything as though it were played by Alice in Chains? Probably not. I would much rather give up hearing all together. Which is kinda funny in a way because that way I could make really lame grunting and moaning noises during sex and have no idea how bizarre or lame they are. I could also make these noises during church services and while I am working and people would have to feel sorry for me since I am a fucking handicap. There is no way in hell I would be able to hear everything as though it were being played by Alice in Chains. In a way I cannot imagine loving anyone that much. At least I am honest.
6. At long last, someone invents “the dream VCR.” This machine allows you to tape an entire evening’s worth of your own dreams, which you can then watch at your leisure. However, the inventor of the dream VCR will only allow you to use this device if you agree to a strange caveat: When you watch your dreams, you must do so with your family and your closest friends in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along with you. And if you don’t agree to this you can’t use the dream VCR. Would you still do this?
I am afraid of my own dreams. For an entire year, I stopped sleeping because I was deathly afraid of my own dreams. It’s not that I didn’t want to dream so much as be troubled by my dreams when I start obsessing over them while I’m awake. I know how creepily bizarre my own dreams are, and moreover the insanity of my thoughts. These are things I just don’t want to share with people, let alone myself. Basically, even if you offered me the ability to see all my dreams without having to share them with anyone I would, of course, object. I think it would drive me to a steady level of insanity that I cannot even explain with words.
7. Defying all expectation, a group of Scottish marine biologists capture a live Loch Ness monster. In an almost unbelievable coincidence, a bear hunter in the Pacific Northwest shoots a Sasquatch in the thigh, thereby allowing zoologists to take the furry monster into captivity. These events happen on the same afternoon. That evening, the president announces he may have thyroid cancer and will undergo a biopsy later that week. You are the front-page editor of The New York Times: What do you play as the biggest story?
For a second, this might seem like it is a complex conundrum, but it isn’t. Honestly, in comparison, the president “maybe” having thyroid cancer isn’t that big of a deal. So fuck it. Which leaves us with The Loch Ness monster & Sasquatch. Big Foot vs. Loch Ness. They both incur a certain sense of lore that one might get confused as to which one is more important, but if you use some simple logic is it easy to see that Big Foot is way more important, and not even because of Harry and the Henderson’s. This is because I am an American and fuck the Scottish and their sea monster. I call Big Foot because of my keen North American Pride. Well, that and because if scientists have taken that hair mother-fucker into captivity we will soon know if he is a distant ancestor to man, which is, of course, awesome and stuff.
8. You meet the perfect person. Romantically, this person is ideal: You find them physically attractive, intellectually stimulating, consistently funny, and deeply compassionate. However, they have one quirk: This person is obsessed with Jim Henson’s gothic puppet fantasy The Dark Crystal. Beyond watching it on DVD at least once a month, he/she peppers casual conversation Dark Crystal references, uses Dark Crystal analogies to explain everyday events, and occasionally likes to talk intensely about the film’s “deeper philosophy.” Would this be enough to stop you from marrying this individual?
I have been obsessed with lost of things over the years including, but not limited to: Fight Club, Chinese, Awesome, Greek Mythology, Modigliani, Lolita & The Big Lebowski. None of these things ever came to a point where someone would have to ask themselves, “Would this obsession impede my ability to marry and love this person for eternity?” I mean, regardless if this was Dark Crystal or Sesame Street, if I had to ask myself, “Is this enough to stop me from marrying this individual?” then I probably shouldn’t be fucking marrying this person because I am having second thoughts. Also, knowing me, if I am having second thoughts I am also having sex with said person’s best man in the bathroom of an all night diner.
9. A novel titled Interior Mirror is released to mammoth commercial success (despite middling reviews). However, a curious social trend emerges: Though no one can prove a direct scientific link, it appears that almost 30 percent of the people who read this book immediately become homosexual. Many of these newfound homosexuals credit the book for helping them reach this conclusion about their orientation, despite the fact that Interior Mirror is ostensibly a crime novel with no homoerotic content (and was written by a straight man). Would this phenomenon increase (or decrease) the likelihood of you reading this book?
I would totally end up reading this book. I mean, I would need to know if I was a homo or not. What if I just missed out on discovering it this entire time? What if this book could be the key to my complete sexual self-discovery? It is my obligation to myself to find out. Besides, a book does not make you gay, it merely gives you the tools to use, in the discovery of your own homosexuality or lack thereof. If I was gay, I was probably gay before I read the book in the first place.
10. This is the opening line of Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City: “You are not the kind of guy who would be in a place like this at this time of the morning.” Think about that line in the context of the novel (assuming you’ve read it). Now go to your CD collection and find Heart’s Little Queen album (assuming you own it). Listen to the opening riff to “Barracuda.” Which of these two introductions is a higher form of art?
This is probably the hardest question to answer so far. I love “Barracuda”. It is my ringtone. I am that fucking barracuda. Watch out for me or you will be sorry. Yea, you! The opening riff is fucking magic and makes me want to put on thigh high leather boots and walk all over the nearest man. BUT goddammit, McInerney’s opening line to Bright Lights, Big City is incredibly fantastic. The writer in me ends up choosing the opening line of Bright Lights, Big City over Heart’s “Barracuda” because to me, it truly is the higher art form.
11. You are watching a movie in a crowded theater. Though the plot is mediocre, you find yourself dazzled by the special effects. But with twenty minutes left in the film, you are struck with an undeniable feeling of doom: You are suddenly certain your mother has just died. There is no logical reason for this to be true, but you are certain of it. You are overtaken with the irrational metaphysical sense that—somewhere—your mom has just perished. But this is only an intuitive, amorphous feeling; there is no evidence for this, and your mother has not been ill. Would you immediately exit the theater, or would you finish watching the movie?
With twenty minutes left in the movie I am going to fucking finish it. Regardless if my ESP has finally kicked in or if I am simply going crazy again, I probably cannot save my mother if something horrible has happened. I am going to finish my stupid movie and text my mom and ask her, “Are you alive.” About twenty minutes is a good timeline to wait for a response. If, within that time range I do not get a message back I will go into Boy Scout mode and track the bitch down, yO!
12. You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this proves works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at this random stranger. The wizard says, “I will now make them a dollar more attractive.” He waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell, nothing is different. But—somehow—this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can’t deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though—you can only pay him once. You can’t keep giving him money until you’re satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum up front. How much cash do you give the wizard?
I am not bad looking. I do alright. I have a decent face and nice boobs. I give the wizard 5 grand and see what happens. If I am already doing pretty good, but the time that mother fucker gives me 5 grand worth of desirability I will be just like a fucking Dungeons & Dragon character +5000 desirability. And I will be more attractive and you can’t go wrong there—and you can’t put a cap on attractiveness. I have never heard anyone say, “Oh, she’s just entirely too good looking.” Maybe I want to hear someone say that. I think 5 grand isn’t so much that I would feel bad for doing it, but I would want to see the major change and that amount should afford it. Also, I am vain.
13. Every person you have ever slept with is invited to a banquet where you are the guest of honor. No one will be in attendance except you, the collection of your former lovers, and the catering service. After the meal, you are asked to give a fifteen-minute speech to the assembly. What do you talk about?
I talk about the symbolic significance of penguins in the movie Fight Club. Maybe, I dunno. I would probably talk about my mom and how she taught me that neat trick she learned during her stint in Saigon. You know, the one where she strips the condom off of said male and drinks the contents for a nickel. Yea, that one. I mean, if you fucked me I was either totally drunk and/or obscene, or sober and totally fucking obscene so it would solidify a certain tone that would be more than “familiar”. Besides, I would probably be very, extremely intoxicated so I just might get into the fact that everyone I have ever had intimate contact with has a codename. So I could randomly point at someone saying, “You, I’ve been calling you the quickness since that first time you lasted less than 27 seconds.” I mean, it could end really bad. There is absolutely no way I could do it sober. The more I think about it the more I realize that I might have to do like totally a lot of mescaline to do it. I might need some right now just thinking about it. I want my wookie.
14. For reasons that cannot be explained, cats can suddenly read at a twelfth-grade level. They can’t write, but they can read silently and understand the text. Many cats love this new skill, because they now have something they can do all day while they lay around the house; however, a few cats become depressed, because reading forces them to realize the limitations of their existence (not to mention the utter frustration of being unable to express themselves). This being the case, do you think the average cat would enjoy Garfield, or would cats find this cartoon to be an insulting caricature?
Cats would hate Garfield. They tend to be shitty, bitchy creatures. They would take it as an insult and start to vomit all over the carpet anytime they were confronted with an atrocity like Garfield. I hate Garfield. It makes me want to vomit on the carpet. I have been considered a cat before. MEOW!
15. You have a brain tumor. Though there is no discomfort at the moment, this tumor would unquestionably kill you in six months. However, your life can (and will) be saved by an operation; the only downside is that there will be a brutal incision to your frontal lobe. After the surgery, you will be significantly less intelligent. You will still be a fully functioning adult, but you will be less logical, you will have a terrible memory, and you will have little ability to understand complex concepts or difficult ideas. The surgery is in two weeks. How do you spend the next fourteen days?
I spend the next fourteen days killing as many brain cells as possible. I do not plan to get the surgery. In fact, I am just going to party as hard as possible until I die from partying. I will probably die well before the tumor kills me. I am going to chomp down on hallucinogens for breakfast and then for a mid-morning snack I’ll have a copious amount of cocaine followed by a LOT of booze. The booze will flow like vaginal fluid and the vaginal fluid will also be flowing as I will have sex with anyone or anything that I come across. I am going to die, but goddamnit I am going to live first.
16. Someone builds an optical portal that allows you to see a vision of your own life in the future (it’s essentially a crystal ball that shows a randomly selected image of what your life will be like in twenty years). You can only see into this portal for thirty seconds. When you finally peer into the crystal, you see yourself in a living room, two decades older then you are today. You are watching a Canadian football game, and you are extremely happy. You are wearing a CFL jersey. Your chair is surrounded by books and magazines that promote the Canadian Football League, and there are CFL pennants covering your walls. You are alone in the room, but you are gleefully muttering about historical moments in Canadian football history. It becomes clear that—for some unknown reason—you have become obsessed with Canadian football. And this future is static and absolute; no matter what you can do, this future will happen. The optical portal is never wrong. This destiny cannot be changed. The next day, you are flipping through television channels and randomly come across a pre-season CFL fame between the Tornoto Argonauts and the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Knowing your inevitable future, do you now watch it?
No, I am not going to watch it. I’ll tell you something, if I am going to pick up an obsession for something as lame as the CFL I am not going to start it because a futuristic machine said I would. After realizing something like that, it would probably take a sheer miracle to make me watch CFL and since it HAS to happen, you know it’s going to be good, the miracle that is. I think the most awesome part would be figuring out, at some point, exactly what sent me over the edge and into the arms of insanity.
17. You are sitting in an empty bar (in a town you’ve never before visited), drinking Bacardi with a soft-spoken acquaintance you barely know. After an hour, a third individual walks into the tavern and sits by himself, and you ask your acquaintance who the new man is. “Be careful of that guy,” you are told. “He is a man with a past.” A few minutes later, a fourth person enters the bar; he also sits alone. You ask your new acquaintance who this new individual is. “Be careful of that guy, too,” he says. “He is a man without a past.” Which of these two people do you trust less?
I trust the man without a past less. At least when a man has a past you know what you are dealing with and what you are getting into. If a man has no past there is nothing to go on. An incredible part of learning about people is using keys of their past to unlock who they are in the present. Anyone with no inclusive past is basically a giant question mark. It’s like the empty vessel theory. When Children are born they are empty. A clean slate if you will. In that sense, if a man is completely empty all there can be to fill him is what you show and give him. But it’s not like the fucker was just recently born. He’s just without a past, which means DON’T FUCKING TRUST HIM. I’d probably have to kill him when he was on his way to his car in the parking lot. I would murder him good because, you know, why not?
18. You have won a prize. The prize has two options, and you can choose either (but not both). The first option is a year in Europe with a monthly stipend of $ 2,000. The second option is ten minutes on the moon. Which option do you select?
You go to the moon, so when you’re in a bar you tell people, “I went to the fucking moon. What did you do? Go to stupid Europe for a year?” You see, the moon is a trump card because any old asshole could go to Europe. Going to the moon, if only for a second, is probably the most awesome claim you can make. Any asshole that chooses Europe eats shit sandwiches. That is blatant stupidity. The price of going to the moon vs. $24,000 and Europe is kind of a no brainer. I like cheese. I like moon cheese and sporse and fungi.
19. Your best friend is taking a nap on the floor of your living room. Suddenly, you are face with a bizarre existential problem: This friend is going to die unless you kick them (as hard as you can) in the rib cage. If you don’t kick them while they slumber, they will never wake up. However, you can never explain this to your friend; if you later inform them that you did this to save their life, they will also die from that. So you have to kick a sleeping friend in the ribs, and you can’t tell them why. Since you cannot tell your friend the truth, what excuse will you fabricate to explain this (seemingly inexplicable) attack?
Existential problems are one of those things that make my brain tick. If I had to save my best friend’s life I could do it, which includes but is not limited to kicking the shit out of them. I would get OBLIERATED and then kick the mother fucker as hard as I could. When they woke up with one, possibly two broken ribs, I would fall over them like I tripped. The second they talked to me they would realize I was drunk and the mystery would be solved. I would apologize and secretly bask in the glory of my newly formed Christ Complex. If I hurt them badly I would buy them an ice cream of maybe a horse. It depends on how they react.
20. For whatever the reason, two unauthorized movies are made about your life. The first is an independently released documentary, primarily comprised of interviews with people who know you and bootleg footage of your actual life. Critics are describing the documentary “brutally honest and relentlessly fair.” Meanwhile, Columbia Tri-Star has produced a big-budgeted biopic of your life, casting major Hollywood stars as you and all your acquaintances; though the movie is based on actual events, screenwriters have taken some liberties with the facts. Critics are split on the artistic merits of this fictionalized account, but audiences love it. Which film would you be most interested in seeing?
I would definitely go with the documentary of my life. Have you ever read my blog? The shit that happens to me is way more interesting than some forced story arch put forth by Hollywood Honchos. I really am THAT awesome.
21. Imagine you could go back to the age of five and relive the rest of your life, knowing everything that you know now. You will reexperience your entire adolescence with both the cognitive ability of an adult and the memories of everything you’ve learned from having lived your life previously. Would you lose your virginity earlier or later than you did the first time around?
I would lose it earlier. I would lose it sober and I would probably be much less of a social reject from the age of 12-20. I would also be drinking at the age of five because that is just something I wouldn’t want to give up. Kindergarten is really fucking hard and I would need a lot of Whiskey to get through it. I dunno if I would want to wait to have sex either. I wouldn’t really want to wait for anything. My god, it sounds kinda horrible to have to live it all over. I mean, I wouldn’t want to start fucking at 12, but waiting till 16 seems like a really long time. I can’t even explain to you how horrible this sounds. I want to kung-fu right now. Ugh.
22. You work in an office. Generally, you are popular with your coworkers. However, you discover that there are currently two rumors circulating in the office gossip mill, and both involve you. The first rumor and both involve you. The first rumor is that you got drunk at the office holiday party and had sex with one of your married coworkers. This rumor is completely true, but most people don’t believe it. The second rumor is that you have been stealing hundreds of dollars of office supplies (and then selling them to cover a gambling debt). This rumor is completely false, but virtually everyone assumes it is factual. Which of these rumors is most troubling to you?
The rumor which says I am a fucking sneaky thief is a big fucking problem for me. Turns out I am not a fucking thief, but I am in fact a man eating whore. So I would mostly be offended no one believed that I fucked a married co-worker. I’d probably still be fucking that married co-worker. I’m probably fucking him as I type this. I do not fucking steal, I am so totally above that.
23. Consider this possibility:
a. Think about deceased TV star John Ritter.
b. Now, pretend Ritter had never become famous. Pretend he was never affected by the trappings of fame, and try to imagine what his personality would have been like.
c. Now, imagine that this person—the unfamous John Ritter—is a character in a situation comedy.
d. Now, you are also a character in this sitcom, and the unfamous John Ritter character is your sitcom father.
e. However, this sitcom is actually your real life. In other words, you are: Everything about your life is a construction, featuring the unfamous John Ritter playing himself (in the role of your TV father). But this is not a sitcom. This is your real life. How would you feel about this?
I’d probably feel really bad as John Ritter had a congenital heart defect and would be my dead father in my real life, which happened to be set up like a situation comedy. Even if we can alter his personality, and his “life” we cannot alter his physical being. My dad dies. My fake John Ritter father dies and I am a sad boring orphan. At some point on my life-show I would make him take me to Alcatraz Island. And he would trip and fall and break his face and have to wear a mask like Hannibal Lecter. I love awesome.
Sometimes, you wake up and find out that you got married while you were drunk the night before. When this happens and the first thought in your head when you realize what happened is If I fuck any other guy while we divorce–I can say “When I was cheating on my first husband.” You are Sabrina Cognawesome.
Boys that wear cowboy boots should be shot. I mean, not cowboys, cowpokes or dudes that find themselves doing manual labor on a ranch, but very obviously sissy boys with desk jobs that have little man complexes. They are the same guys that wear designer jeans with over-priced vintage t-shirts and 400 dollar haircuts that take 35 minutes to “style” in a way which looks “intentionally” messy. These guys, they cry during pivotal parts in movies. These guys, they say they’re looking for true love, which should estimated cost is the price of a fancy meal and a designer shirt, which of course, they can wear with their schmancy boots, indicating to their potential “mating partner” their totally rugged manliness and overbearing sense of sexuality. They’re also the guys that show up and seem to get noticed immediately for very obvious reasons, but never manage to maintain that sense of star power and eventually they leave while no one happens to notice.
These are not men whom are acknowledged for being men that just happen to be wearing boots. These are the men that wear boots with the hopes of getting noticed, and more often than not their wish is granted. Everyone notices these little men in their boots, standing tall and proud as though they have eaten “Kong Black Voodoo” a virility formula by KMS. (Something I just found on the internet and really want to try in a big way.) These are the same guys with tiny hands, little feet and more often than not feminine bone structure. The best thing they could do is embrace their androgyny and market this piece of themselves to their flat-chested female counterparts, but they can’t, and they shouldn’t because then what would I have to rant about?
These guys, they are always the first to start a fight. Consequently, they are also the first to be loaded into the ambulance while some giant black lady explains to the police why she, “Laid that bitch out all over the street—cause sometimes you got to teach a bitch a lesson.” Such lessons provide to be an incredibly worth-while example of contemporary “teaching” if you witness said beating from a safe proximity, or if you carry a 9mm in the front of your pants like me. This same guy, when he wakes up from his beating induced coma will insist that he held his own. He will, of course, have to do this via pen and paper as his jaw will be broken and wired together—all a result of getting the shit kicked out of him.
These guys that wear cowboy boots to look chic, they kill the mystique of the sexy, rough riding cowpoke more than the gay sex in Brokeback Mountain. At least, in Brokeback Mountain there is the premise of rough men, having rough sex in a tender, loving way. That’s sexy. It keeps up the cowboy mystique. It is dirty. It is raunchy. It is very “Wild West”. But it isn’t cool or chic or popular. It just IS. This is the thing these cowboy boot wearing posers fail to realize. The idea of sex with them presents flashes of bawling, more so from them, than their partner, as they are probably emotional wrecks as well as horribly bad lays. And even if they don’t start to cry in the midst of copulating they will probably become incredibly emotional upon their climaxing and talk about their feelings in a sort of post coital emotional purge. This will lead to me reaching over to the nightstand where earlier, I carefully placed the .357 magnum I took from its holding place in the front of my pants and shoot him, dead, like the cockroaches he is.
Apparently, this entire genus of man missed the memo, but cowboys don’t want to talk about feelings because they don’t have any. They are men. Manly men. And they fuck—hard fucking. Cause they ride horses, shoot guns and kill wild animals. There can’t be contemporary men dressed in their best “business casual” outfit and fucking cowboy boots because it throws off the stasis of the universe. Cowboys are cowboys. They have a 6th grade education, cannot engage in a conversation of politics without saying, “Fuck those Commie Chinks” as a response to the current situation in the Middle East and can easily shoot a fly between the eyes from 50 miles away because that is what cowboys do. It’s what makes them cool. Their anti-coolness, anti-intelligence & their general form of social anti-awareness makes women’s clothes melt off and their legs spread open. So every time I meet one of these cowboy posers I have to rearrange and reinforce my cowboy fantasy in a sort of half-assed angry way. I swear to god and everything holy that I am going to poke out their fucking eyes and stick the tips of their fucking boots in the gaping cavities left behind in order to teach them not to fuck with my sexy vision of “real men”.
So first I went and got a new gig at “The Beat” and then I went on holiday. So basically, in between all that gobbily goo I didn’t make time to blog because I was too busy being fabulous and getting wasted. By “holiday” I mean, I went to San Francisco for a few days–because if you can’t take off some odd amount of days when you start a new job–then you should quit that job and live off wellfare. In San Francisco, I got lost in a storm on Alcatraz Island. I fought a band of ninjas and destroyed a man’s will to live because sometimes you have to. I also maintainied being drunk the entire time. I have probably a million things to either explain or announce, but I am entirely too busy to break it all down right now. In lieu of that, I will probably post a story or in the very least, a rant.
I do what I can, and what I can do–well, for that I could be imprisioned in lots of 4rd world nations.
awesome.
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