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April 7th, 2009

Desperation = Kangaroo pouches with ziplock seals.

So I had assumed I was over this whole "writing to myself" thing, but just when I think reclusiveness is the only answer, sure enough I fall back on immortalizing my flippant disgust in the form of blahhg.

(Note: Yes, "blahhg" = "disdainful blog")

So aside from where I've been, what I've been up to, and the long list of other funtaculastic events I've been engaged in, let me first get this one out of the way...



Haha, just fucking with you. But if you Google "pregnant man" that guy... err... whatever is the real deal.

Anyhow, I began this post for what in other circles may be construed as "ventilating"... or whatever these "kids" call it nowadays.

I hate when people tell me:
-Who I am.
-What I think.
-What I know.
-What I think I know.
-What they think I think I know.
-What I need to do.
-Where I need to go.
-Who my daddy is.

And then they get all fussy when I tell them to quit being so bossy. Geez, but seriously, eat shit and die. Enough said? I think not...

The day someone can tell me what I'm going to do next based on their observations is the day I'll ask them to be my psychic hotline. If their perception is so astute then why don't they know that I would rather insert large searing hot objects up my nose and into my figurative hamster cage than listen to them ramble on about how well they think they know me.

It's hard to quote, but the phrase, "Joo don't know me bisch." comes to mind.

It's like I tell someone a sliver of my life story and all of a sudden they know what kind of breakfast cereal I want to buy at the grocery store. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT KIND OF BREAKFAST CEREAL I WANT TO BUY AT THE GROCERY STORE!!1!wtfOMGTACOSAUCE. Although, just between you and me, I have a soft spot in my gooey innards for Cookie Crisps. Who can say "no" to a bowl full of tiny cookies? Pssh, if you can you're a damn liar... or a terrorist. *suspicious glare*

So for now, I'll sit back wondering whatever became of the friends we had when we were kids. Maybe it was just that the requirements were set far lower. All you had to do was find someone with a mutual enjoyment for sandboxes, tire swings, or red rubber balls and you were instant BFFs. Now it's all about politics, religion, drugs, sex, the possibility of sex, the thought of the possibility of sex (anyone begin to see why girls make crappy friends?), sports, pissing contests, scoring with chicks, pretending to score with chicks (anyone begin to see why guys make crappy friends?), etc. I'll take a deep meaningful discussion about "what socks would look best on a manatee if manatees had feet" anyday of the flippin' week. Maybe I should learn to knit and then I can ask my knitting club.

Until next time... (Gawd, that felt good.)

December 28th, 2007

Forgive... Just Forget.

Today a revelation unfurled in the back of my head.

I am incapable of forgiveness. As strange and joking as it sounds I've come to find that it's really quite true. If I think I have been wronged by someone, as long as it remains in my memory I will no doubt harbor ill intent for that person until my memory fails me and I forget the event occurred. Obviously, this all depends on how deeply I feel about a certain event as little transgressions fall much easier out of my often shoddy memory. Funny thing is I just recently wrote about putting the past behind me and cutting ties with it. Well, this isn't meant to contradict my previous statement, but only help to enrich it. You see, for me to move beyond the past the process is really quite simple. Forget. Unfortunately, my mind isn't so easily reigned and I cannot simply wipe the slate clean whenever I wish. Although, to be honest I know of a few substances that do a pretty decent job of it.

Why then is it so easy for me to pretend like nothing is wrong and continue about my life as if the transgressor is pardoned? Well, after attempting to formulate a complex explanation I found that the answer was very clear. Apathy. Plainly put, I really just don't fucking care. Not because by some philosophical means I've justified the nullification of value to the many things that society dictates I should care about, but more simply the things that I should care about will never compare to specific events in my life. In retrospect the anguish inflicted to ultimately create this large gap in comparable pain was really pretty avoidable, but at the age I had no idea how to cope and the result of which was mental implosion. As irrational and avoidable as this pain was, at this point it is irrelevant as my memory has already logged it and the contrast will forever be there to compare against, likely until I get Alzheimer's or until substance abuse takes me to a new level of forgetfulness. Because drug abuse is an old hat that I ran thin along time ago I don't really see it as a current option so here's to growing old and senile. Cheers! In the meantime though I'm left with a small dilemma and that is how I'm going to deliver all these sharks with lasers attached to their heads? I mean, that's the best course of revenge is it not?

Back In Black...

Alroight! So another few days have passed. I'm awake so here goes another fine installment of "iD's fucking fantastic world of crap and the ecetera".

With introductions now successfully aside let's begin:

Talk about shitty conversations (or if you can call it that) my mother has just finished a fantastic and otherwise spectacular attempt at converting me to Christ-ianity for only the lord knows how many times (irony anyone?). May the crowd rejoice... *holds sign reading "cheer m-fuckers"*. Carrying on, after "agreeing" to entertain my mother's idea of "Conversion to Christ-Love: The DVD" I spent an hour or so of my precious existence watching Lee Strobel's The Case For Christ, or as I would like to refer to it as "Dar Christ Wuz Real, 4 Real". This wonderful waste of an hour presents Lee Strobel's story as an atheistic journalist who in an attempt to save his marriage and family travels about the globe making "a case for Christ". This is all fine and flippin' dandy because my personal beliefs dictate that anyone of us pathetic individuals on this planet can conduct whatever suckass events and activities we can conjure up in our fragile little minds with the exceptions that it doesn't intrude on the lives of any other of us pathetic individuals. However, this contradicts the core mission of religion which is to spread your frucktastic system of beliefs and impose it on any person you come into contact with. (And yes, I did mean to misspell "fucktastic". Why? Because this is my blog and I can do whatever the hell I please, savy?)

Continuing, my mother proposed Lee Strobel's "case" as one that any atheist could relate to after which they'd be immediately converted into believing that Jesus was/is (technicalities?) the son o' god ("God" for all those "religified" folk.(Mind you, if you read "religified" and didn't even flinch, than you certainly fall into the ranks of ignorant twats that voted for George W. Bush and need to quickly remove your heads from your asses before you choke on your own crap.)(Parentheses within parentheses are fun... I heart tangents.)) Parentheses = Digression.

Carrying on, because of such a compelling argument put forth by my extremely faithful mother I decided, "Hell? Why the fuck not?" as I am on vacation and have nothing much better to do with my time besides download lesb0-pr0n and ingest enough Tylenol+beer to black out for another night. This was to be a mistake and an irrecoverable hour plus some odd minutes of my life, but without such wastefulness I would not have produced such a ranting review that you are now so entertained by.

Anyway, the story begins as Lee's wife, Leslie, finds Christ. It enfuriates poor atheistic Lee and as the investigatory journalist that he is (fuckin' cockroach) he goes about scouring the United States for proof that either A.) his wife is a dipshit or B.) he and his wife are both dipshits. He goes onto tell the audience that he found "overwhelming" evidence that Jesus was real and for all intents and purposes was the son of god. This is where he introduces several theological *hack cough hack* I mean Christian scholars and has them tell the audience about the historical evidence for their religion, i.e. "The Bible". Surprise! The "theologians" */sarc* present Lee's "case" using "The Bible", specifically the New Testament to display irreputable historical evidence that Jesus really was the son of god. Huge issue though, and that is who here credited The Bible as a historical reference? I mean sure, it coincides with many historical events that are confirmed in other historical documentation, but that isn't to say that because the Greek author, Homer's The Odyssey, coincided with historical events that Odysseus really was held captive by sirens for seven years, blinded a cyclops with a wooden stake, ate Chinaman food with Jackie Chan, and saved his kidnapped princess from the evil Dinosaur King Bowser for the umpteenth time... all in time for tea. Ok, so maybe I got my stories a bit mixed up, but my point still remains... and it really is sharp... AND I'll stick you in the eye with it if you aren't tentatively listening... My point that is, not whatever other dirty nonsense just went flippin' through your distracted little mind. Expect a sharp object in your eye shortly.

Anyway, Lee goes on further to make a case for the historical validity of the bible by saying that it's words weren't even really written down for some time and were more or less passed down by oral tradition. Alright, who the fuck died and made Lee Strobel the king of making sense? You are going to tell me that every time a story is told that it is immediately memorized verbatim and passed on to everyone else 100% accurately. That's like saying that when you play the common game of "telephone" that the starting message of "Yo quiero taco bell." will reach the end of the line with a creepy chihuahua handing you delicious diarrhea wrapped in a cripsy shell instead of the assumable "Lee Strobel smells like old cheese." He argues that society is self correcting and that as a group we would all correct eachother's errors in the retelling of the stories. Yea, because there weren't just as many pricks around in 33-100AD as there are now to insert stupid shit into the chain of the message. Pretty soon Jesus has gone from a real nice Jewish guy to a handsome Roman with a rippling six pack who walks on water in his leisure time. Anyone still following? No? It's because you're are thinking Jesus was a black guy right? *shakes head*

All cynicism aside, I don't doubt that Jesus is any more or less deserving of human worship than any other figure that the lost people of this planet chose to follow. My main focus (which I tend to have a hard time keeping to) is that Lee Strobel is fucking joke. If you converted to Christianity because your wife ultimately has your nuts in a vice just say so, don't go writing three books about your "discoveries" which are for the most part supported by unsubstantiated, circumstantial, and completely biased evidence, and then marketing your crap to make you a rich bitch so you don't have to work for the Chicago Tribune anymore. Piss off you parasite of your own "supposed faith". If your findings were indeed "so profound" that it could convert the most devout atheist than why not give away your findings instead of selling it for a quick profit? Do I have to pay $20 to you for the salvation of my soul? The answer is because he knows very well that Christians are gullible and will buy anything just as long as it says "Yay Christ!" somewhere in it's context. Well congratufuckinlations Lee Strobel, you suckered my poor mother into buying your crap and now a small portion of my father's time that went into making the money that my mother so carelessly spent on your literary garbage is now forever lost. Hats off to you Lee Strobel, I hope Jesus really is a black guy, coincidentally nicknamed Bubba, and he just so happens to have a thing for anal rape somewhere between the "pearly gates" and a "pearl necklace" when he makes you his cellblock bee-otch.

Well the alcohol is wearing thin in my bloodstream which means you'll hear no more blasphemy from me tonight. I'm off to mass to repent and confess... *checks mirror to make sure I have enough facial hair to clearly differentiate myself from a little boy so as to avoid preistly fondelling*.

Hoorah for opinionated, diarrhetic, alcohol-induced blasphemy! Pour me another Guiness.

December 25th, 2007

Good evening electricity,

You've always been a kind friend and an earnest ear. Although quiet and poor at expressing your opinions you have been here and I have neglected you. I sincerely apologize. I meant no harm or insult in my careless abandonment of your comforting keyboard and warm glow. I make no excuse, but if you'll allow, I'd like to explain my abscence. I've been busy as you may have been able to tell. Surely not busy writing my sorrow and sadness, my comedy or cheer, not an unbridled word since I've been away. I fear I won't be able to stay for long. Life demands a lot from me and as it would seem, poses nothing but difficult choices and relentless dreams, but I guess these dreams are what brings me back to you.

It's a half past midnight and I can't get back to bed. It's strange, but I find a pattern developing in my free time away from my current life. I first noticed it back in November during my trip to Texas. Despite the cornucopia of distractions that I kept close at hand, it seemed at every event I was destined to be ripped from reality by an overwhelming introspection. Like a spectral world, my mind delving fast and deep into all the very things I've been burying since birth. Every regret surfacing like a bloated corpse afloat in the sea of my life. My dreams have been filled with the past and in most cases haunting me after I awake. Every night, I have had the greatest loves of my life wrenched from me. Have you ever watched the person you love most die right infront of you, unsure that she heard you as you whispered your last words in her ear while her skin turned cold? Have you ever watched it night after night while you supposedly lay resting? Have you ever had your heart broken by someone you trusted and have that pain recalled every waking morning? These are the things in my dreams and though miniscule to the accumulation of the world's historical sorrows we are a selfish species and so my universe revolves with me at the center.

The best I can explain is the company I keep and the places I choose to visit. What unconscious mental relations I make during the day seems to materialize in my unconscious state. It's truly maddening and I write this in full appreciation of your understanding silence. You will never judge me for my dramatization or unkempt emotions. You are the "dear diary" that so many found before me. I appreciate your form, and I say this without jest, as this multi-line edit field is far more suiting than a diary full of secrets. In the end I'll leave this for the prying eyes, not because I feel I need attention, but because I'm truly tired of hiding myself. Exposing my thoughts in one cryptic form or another is indeed an irrational comfort. I am tired of masking my thoughts, but I can't even be frank with myself. Even if I left this expression privatized I'd still spare myself the gritty details just so I could attempt to prolong a sense of ignorance.

In many aspects of life I choose to cut ties with the past and move on promoting a loss of memory and a fresh distraction to replace it with. It's a poor means to an end, but recommended by many. Unsure of the spelling, even less sure of it's validity, but "Hakunamata" is a staple of our Disney generation. Fucking Lion King, I think the brutal truth of the matter is that your crazed and sinister uncle Scar, really does kill everyone and "manifest Disney destiny" giving us the right to aspire to ultimate heroic triumphs is nothing more than an imminent shortcoming of ability. I am falling far from the point, and although I am finding the rant therapeutic, the fact remains that I digress.

As I was describing I have found that in life it is easier to cut ties and move on than it is to be drowned by the bricks you tie yourself to. In an attempt to make myself seem less cold and insincere I have attempted jousts of cordial revisitation to old friendships, and using my recent San Antonio trip as an example, only yielding one regretless yet unsettling revisitation that may have only complicated what life I've been trying so desperately to sort out. Unsettling as it was it offered contrast like many changes of atmosphere in the past. I frequent the memories of trips I've taken and the introspection they provide. A past trip to Michigan gave me insight on my first love, a girl I thought I'd marry and grow old with at the foolish age of fourteen. I later found her to be untrusting and unfaithful, and although devastated, the plummet was far from fatal. It took years to move on from that seemingly perfect love, but I knew I could not revive that past and could very well experience the feeling again if not but after a small amount of callus. Sure enough there were others and that contrast pushed me forward.

With that being said, I'd like to interject a dilemma in my analogy of leaving the past to rest and that is knowing when you've cut a tie too soon. When is it too soon to move on? What if I'd overcome every adversity, and despite discouragement perservered in a fool's gamble? Would the publishers of my life's tale be Walt Disney or The Brothers Grimm? Is it even possible for me to become "The Lion King"? (Figuratively speaking, of course.) Right now, I feel more like my life is being orchestrated by Dr. Seuss. "I will not love you in a box, I will not love you with a fox, I do not like heartbreak in hand, I do not like you Sam I am." Sam's sexual identity aside, the fact remains, the past is haunting and I don't feel like distraction or concentration is a remedy. I guess this is where I'll end this evening's therapy. I thank you electricity, for your forgiveness and unwavering support.

Love, peace, and chicken grease. I'm out.

(Atleast writing to myself isn't near as crazy as talking to myself.)

December 4th, 2007

Happy Birthday Cara


October 19th, 2007

Poem: If I Could Speak Crow

The crow sits with unrelenting eyes.
It stares deep and it stare long,
and it doesn't care for time.
It's waiting without question
for something in vision,
and it's waiting, just waiting for me.

Unsettling as it may very well be,
I can't help but notice,
the crow's interest in me.
From it's perch, it sits waiting,
high up in it's tree.
Just waiting, without question,
just waiting for me.

If I could speak crow I'd ask,
"What is it you want?"
but what could I say,
that'd console it and calm it
so it could be on it's way.
I'd say, "Stop it! Quit staring!
Just please leave me be!",
but I know it'd keep staring,
just waiting for me.

So finally, fed up,
with it's vexing survey
I picked up a stone
and without much delay,
I hurled it straight forth
and to my dismay,
I missed and it continued,
continued, obdurate.

Another and another
I threw stone after stone,
but the crow just stood firm
and then I heard a faint moan.
Then a "Hey you!" from afar.
A man looking quite mean,
was staring, just staring,
he was staring at me.

He said, "Throwing stones?
Well you better look out!"
He struck me in the ear
and I let out a shout.
One after another,
until I started to bleed,
One after another,
until I lay at the scene.

Now flat on my back
I looked up at the crow,
battered and beaten,
I just wanted to know,
"Was this your intention?"
It looked back with a gleam
and if crow's could smirk,
I swear it just beamed,
and left with a chuckle
as it departed the scene.

You're probably just wondering
"What's wrong with this guy?
Starting fights with a crow?"
Well I really won't lie,
you see the crow's just a symbol
and the stones, they are too.
With a message most nimble
and really quite true.
That if you go looking for trouble,
trouble often finds you.

October 10th, 2007

I hate who I am, layer after every layer,
with a disposition composition that makes people think I care,
but I don't. Maybe it's something in my smile,
that gets people thinking I'll run that extra mile,
just to please them, but I won't. It's plain to see.
When it comes down to it, it's either you or else it's me,
and that's how I run my life, it keeps everything real simple.
Don't dare call me on it, or you may just get a faceful
of dissappointment. I'll just leave you where you stand.
I'll shut you out, take a leap, it doesn't matter where I land.
And that's how it goes. I'll avoid you like the plague.
And no one knows, because I always keep it vague...

Take a step back, re-check,
re-examine where your life's at.
Don't decompose, recompose.
You can't settle for these woes.
You need the stimulation.
Don't think you cannot change.
When your life's throwing lemons,
all you do is rearrange.

I'm in this mindset. Set on standby. feeling stuck in this wretched funk.
I feel like shooting it in the head, rolling it up, tossing it in the trunk,
driving it to the nearest bridge, kicking it off the fucking edge,
seeing it fall, splash, and sink fast, from my view up on this ledge.
Sure it's murder... but it's murdering my fucking mind.
I've got to separate, segregate, and reclaim the lost time.
And if those ropes stayed tied to the bricks that help it sink.
Then maybe I'll be able to take that step back from the brink.

October 3rd, 2007

Song: Cortico the Frivolous

Hello... Hello my name is Cortico.
I talk fast, smile large, walk slow, and take charge.
People love me...
I guess it's in my nature.
Naturally funny, or whatever, I just talk and people cater.
And I don't know...
Sometimes I really don't know why,
But it just goes to show, with a life that seems to roll,
what you're able to get...
When you just don't even try.

I've got friends...
With people lining up.
They all want to be around, but I swear I'm overstocked.
I party hard...
I party long, Man, I guess I just like to party,
but at the end of the day sometimes it's just retarded.
I'll lay at night...
staring directly at the ceiling.
Wondering where my life is, where it's gone, and if there's a meaning,
to this crap existence...
It's pushing on my patience.
I find it almost frivolous. Not sure where my days went.
It doesn't matter...
I just feel so incredulous.
With a life like this, how could I expect less?
My friends don't care...
So I'll just go and make some more.
They just keep coming and keep going, leaves me feeling like a whore.
But that's just life...
Of a guy with nothing left to offer.
Behind all the drinks and the laughs, there's just an empty coffer,
I'm fucking lonely...
and no one really understands,
but I guess I'll just keep running until someone takes my hand,

and says...

Take time to look around you.
You were lost and now I've found you.
Quit running and take a moment,
Go back to the ones that love you.
You're living frivolously...
You're tripping and you're falling.
Open your ears, and you'll hear.
Real friends have been calling.
You're completely wasted...
Not drunk, I'm talking 'bout your life.
It sucks, and you really wonder why?
Shape up.

I'm walking lonely pavement...
Guys are talking, but I'm not listening.
An urban sidewalk...
There's no telling what I'm missing,
because I'm wasting...
All my precious little time...
entertaining fucking losers when it should be me that's on my mind.
I think I'm fucked...
If I don't get my act together.
then I'll be stuck...
So I should pull myself together, and shape up.

September 17th, 2007

A New Start... ... Maybe.

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