31 July 2003
So I leave for the sunny plains of Eye-oh-way today. I'm going home for my Gramma's 90th birthday.
I got to thinking about how bizarre it would be if I have, in fact, only lived one-third of my life so far. I mean, I think I've done quite a bit with my life, but there is so much more that I could still do.
Like what, you ask? Well, how convenient that you've asked, or this post would've been a whole hell of a lot shorter.
In the next 60 years, I will:
Skydive. Because I need to see what it feels like to shit my pants at 15,000 feet.
Wander Through Europe. Preferably drunk and on the back of Penelope Cruz. Or with Penelope Cruz, drunk on her back. Tomaytoe, toemahtoe.
Become Richer Than God. And not in that bullshit "rich in spirit" way, either. I'm talking about having enough cash to have people move my fingers for me as I type.
Super Bowl Sex.. Me, Halftime, Jennifer Garner. Don't make me draw a picture. Although, to be honest, I already have drawn several pictures.
Get My Novel Published. And also, if there is time, write my novel.
Add Three Inches. Cuz there's a special cream for that now, I hear.
Have Ripped Abs. Or, at the very least, pull an ab muscle.
Invent Mental Exploder Device. This contraption would allow me to erase certain drivers and their cars from the history of existence. It would be a very painful process for them, but would feel much like an orgasm to me.
Man, there are like a million other things I am going to do, but if I don't pack soon, I will be going to Iowa naked. And frankly, no one needs that.
And also, in the comments, don't wish my Gramma a happy birthday, because to tell ya the truth, she's never liked any of you.
Link to this Entry
30 July 2003
I know that most of you come here for a laugh and I promise to get back to that soon, but there is a barge of shit floating around in my head right now. I’m going home to Iowa this weekend and I’ve had a lot memories come back at once. I thought it was time to share some of them…
I lived in a storybook neighborhood in an idyllic Midwestern town, where people made it a point to wave and ask how things were going. Neighbors were best friends, and families were extended up and down the quiet streets.
My neighborhood was a blueprint for small town perfection. Five families in the immediate vicinity of my house were linked forever from the moment we moved to the neighborhood when I was around five.
I remember my excitement on the first day in the brand new house, as I saw kids my age playing in each direction that I looked. To the North was Matt, who is a year older than me and his brother, Mark who is my brother’s age. To the northeast, was Stephanie, a year younger than me and her sister, Robin, a year her junior. To my East was Ryan, a year younger than me and his brother Chris, three years younger. To my south were the twins, Jodie and Janae, a year older than me.
Having a group of kids so close in age to call upon at any time was like having your own theme park. We would all spend our free time together, playing with Matchbox cars or playing Superheroes or roller skating or whatever our imaginations could come up with under the summer sunshine. There was an open field between my house and Jodie and Janae’s house that was ground zero for laughter. We would do our best to wear out the grass in that field with football games or tag or volleyball. There were snowforts to beget snowball fights and hoses to beget water balloon fights. Squirt guns and dirt bikes. Laughter and friendship.
In what has to be a twist of luck, all of our parents got along too. We had a neighborhood picnic every summer and we’d roast a pig on a spit in the field while fierce volleyball games were waged and kids ran and screamed all around. We would vacation together. We talked about futures together.
We all grew up in that neighborhood, all the way through high school, together. We always remained close and always had each other’s back. I may not have lasted in high school, if not for the watchful eye of Matt or Jodie and Janae. I always felt safe. I was in Ryan’s wedding. I was Jodie’s usher on her wedding day. I can’t think of a day that I spent with my neighbors that wasn’t fun and funny. We were a family. Their parents were my parents. It was perfect.
Except, of course, it wasn’t.
After all of the kids were in college, things became clearer. A haze of idealism drifted out of our little neighborhood. People began to see things that were always there, but had gone unnoticed.
To my north, an empty house. Parents moved away.
To my east, yelling and bitterness.
To my south, verbal abuse. Physical abuse. Hatred.
Everything was broken.
And more. East’s parents divorce. South’s parents divorce. There is cheating in both relationships. Hiding, sneaking and lying.
They were cheating with each other – Mr. from the east and Mrs. from the south. Hiding, sneaking and lying.
Mr. East and Mrs. South got married seven or eight years ago and moved away from the formerly perfect world, leaving ashes. I never spoke to them again, though they were truly like a second father and a second mother to me. I made it a point not to invite them to my wedding, because they represented everything I despise in a relationship. Hiding, sneaking and lying.
I can never forgive them for what they’ve ruined in me and my friends. Nothing is ever quite right when I talk to Ryan and Chris or Jodie and Janae, if I even talk to them at all. We are all changed by the events that were out of our control. We all have the same dull void in our stomachs and our memories, I think. It’s as if that storybook world of childhood never actually existed and I am filled with resentment. My fantastic childhood was a fraud. A play put on for my amusement. I feel sick.
But there is a bit more.
Earlier this year, Mr. East, second husband to Mrs. South and father to Ryan and Chris, died a painful and far too early cancerous death. I didn’t attend the funeral. I sent flowers, but still haven’t called or written to Ryan, one of my very best friends, since.
Right now, I am fighting back tears. I remember how Mr. East used to drive us around in his old, mint condition Mustang. How he used to play basketball with us and throw footballs to us from a block away. How he was a father to me sometimes. How he is responsible for raising two of the greatest guys I will ever meet.
I just can’t seem to forgive. He hurt my friends and changed them forever.
But when I go home to Iowa this weekend, I am going to try to talk to Ryan and tell him that his dad meant a lot to me. I’m going to tell Ryan that he means a lot to me.
I hope we can remember our childhood again.
Link to this Entry
29 July 2003
I’ve had this thought lately about which I’ve wanted to write, but I can’t get the words to feel right. Not even a thought, really. Maybe an emotion. I’m just going to start writing and we’ll see what happens.
I remember when I was six and I tried to learn to ride a bike without the rattle-taunting of my training wheels. My parents thought it was a brilliant idea to learn to ride by starting on the cushy fescue of the front lawn. I thought the concept moronic. The ground was bumpy and uneven and there was no chance to get momentum. I couldn’t get my rhythm and I would inevitably fall to the unforgiving soil. After a long Saturday of letdowns, I resigned myself to an equilibrium deficient lifestyle.
And then, as the sun crept down over the top of my house, my neighbor Stephanie rode by on her shiny little starter bike, ribbons streaming from the handlebar ends. My younger neighbor, Stephanie. My younger neighbor girl, Stephanie.
No, this would not stand.
I hopped on my tiny red bicycle that looked like a WWI relic and told my dad that we were gonna hit the streets. He dutifully followed behind as I painted my own Rockwellian portrait of dad chasing son, one hand on my seat for balance. And as so often happens in this rite of passage, I looked back briefly to see that my dad was a block away, laughing at my success, as I yelled, “How do I turn?!?”
I got up at 5:30 the next morning and took my bike from the garage to practice and practice again in our out-of-the-way little street. I was turning my feet feverishly, as if the pedals were gyroscopes, keeping me upright. Elongated ovals, up the street and around and back. On my second turn, I tipped and fell, scraping and rolling. I looked up to protest to my parents, but there was nobody around. I hopped back on and rode again, determined tears in my eyes.
And on the fourth loop, I didn’t stop. I kept going straight up the street, smiling and laughing a little to myself. I had mad thoughts of all the places I could go. What states could I ride to? What were my limits?
I was so free. I could do whatever I wanted. God, it felt so amazing. No limits. Anywhere I wanted to go, I could. The world was bigger and smaller now.
And then I got kinda scared and I went home.
The feeling did hit me one other time. On the first day I got my driver’s license, I took my mom’s ’72 Chevy Nova out for a test spin. I got three blocks from my house and I floored it. I laughed that choking, excited laugh that you feel when you don’t want anyone to know your secret. The car bounced over rolling humps in the road, quickly giving the illusion of flight.
I could go anywhere now. I was wildly free.
There are times, when my mind allows it, that I long for that feeling again, just for the first-love rush of it all. It's a childhood emotion, though. Childish, maybe.
I got some news about an old friend last night. I’m not ready to write about it, but I wish I could give the free feeling to him right now, if only for a moment.
I want to go back home now.
Link to this Entry
28 July 2003
Have I ever mentioned that my wife is a bit of a fitness freak? Well, she is. She teaches five or six different kinds of fitness classes in her free time and works for a fitness company. Also, she’s a runner. She’s been into running since she was very young. She is one of those people that actually enjoys it. When she was in high school, she says she used to get so relaxed that she would literally nap while running. I claim she was drunk.
Anyway, my wife is in the process of training for her third marathon right now. She will be running the Marine Corps Marathon in D.C. in October. She did the MCM last year while I rode along nearby on my bike. Cuz I’m supportive like that. Also, she made me.
So, this past weekend she got up at 7:00 to go on a little training run. That’s a.m. On a weekend. I suspect she may be on the smack.
When she got home, she said, “I ran my 15 miles and I felt so great, I just wanted to keep going and going, ya know?”
A blanker stare has never been stared.
No, I do not know. You are a crazy person.
First of all, 15 miles is not a TRAINING RUN!! It is a CAR TRIP!! Second, I got winded even hearing you tell me the story!! I cannot relate to running that far and wanting to keep going! What I can relate to is running that far and having an EMT hit me with the defibrillator about nine or ten times!! CRAZY PERSON!!
These healthy people must be stopped before they infect the rest of us.
WHO’S WITH ME!?!?
Link to this Entry
25 July 2003
I threw this together kinda quick, so I hope there's no duplicates:
100 (or so) Things About CW
1. I'm sixteen years older than I think I am. That puts me at about 32 years old.
2. I cannot imagine a better marriage than my own.
3. I do not currently have, nor do I ever foresee wanting, children.
4. I don't think marriage is difficult. It's not hard work and it's not a challenge. This is not a popular opinion.
5. I've always been funny.
6. I am a fairly decent writer.
7. The preceding two points are my only discernable skills.
8. I am a fan of material possessions.
9. I am not a good test taker. I always assume the questioner is trying to trick me.
10. I was born and raised in Iowa. There are implications to this. Most good, surprisingly enough.
11. I've lived in Iowa, Georgia, Virginia, Maryland and Georgia again. I don't imagine I'll leave here anytime soon.
12. I like to take calculated risks.
13. I've vacationed in France, England, Spain, Italy and Ireland.
14. I've been to 41 of the 50 states. I just counted. It's more than I thought.
15. Forrest Gump will make me cry pretty much every damned time. When he says, "You died on a Saturday morning...". Yeah, that part.
16. Braveheart has Mel Gibson, disemboweling, a mace to the face and boobies. It is the best movie ever made.
17. Stupid people and inanimate objects cause me more stress and rage than anything else.
18. God and I don't get along because He really believes in me and I really don't believe in Him.
19. I have a U.S. Patent in my name. I also have one pending.
20. When I was 13, I rode a bike across Iowa.
21. I'm not responsible enough for a dog, so I have a cat.
22. I’ve only had two pets (both cats) in my whole life: Maggie, who passed away in 2001 and Moe, who terrorizes us to this day.
23. I intend to name all of my pets after Simpsons characters.
24. I’ve been working since I was 15.
25. I have hazel eyes. When I am drunk and/or horny, they get greener. This has served me well.
26. I am a certified kickboxing aerobics instructor.
27. I couldn’t fight my way out of a Kleenex box.
28. I have an older brother and sister.
29. I lost my virginity at 17 in the back of my Chevy Cavalier to a girl I loved.
30. I got drunk for the first time at sixteen on eight Coors Lights.
31. I am in a fraternity.
32. I enjoy a good game of poker with people that know what they’re doing.
33. I know quite a bit about sports and enjoy talking about it, though I have no actual athletic talent.
34. I enjoy music that can change my mood. Other than that, I have no real musical preferences.
35. I don't know how many women I’ve been with, but it’s more than 75 and less than 100. I think. I am a pig.
36. I love television.
37. I am 25-30 pounds overweight.
38. I take loyalty and trust very seriously.
39. I don’t believe in giving second chances.
40. I’ve been in 12 weddings. I’ve been a best man three times. I hope that says something good about me.
41. I drive a Volkswagen because I totally buy into the ads.
42. When I drink, I prefer vodka.
43. I always wished I could sing or play guitar.
44. I like my facial hair.
45. I’ve been in love four times.
46. My parents have been married for over 40 years. I'm sure this has had a huge effect on every part of my personality.
47. The best line in the history of recorded music is, “I’m looking California, but I’m feeling Minnesota.”
48. I have good hair.
49. I like to be physically clean. It borders on OCD.
50. I am messy in most other ways.
51. I’ve held six professional jobs in the 10 years since college. I change jobs when I get bored.
52. I love everything about football.
53. I think anything can be funny, but only if the timing is right.
54. I get physically angry and violent with video games.
55. I love Italian food and hate Dr. Atkins.
56. The first book that made me want to write was a copy of Catcher In The Rye that I snuck out of the school library.
57. “Big Dumb Sex” by Soundgarden makes me happy every time I listen to it.
58. I worked harder from ages 15 to 25 than I ever have since.
59. I am under the misguided delusion that I will be famous someday.
60. My middle name comes from a grandfather who died before I was born.
61. I haven't had to deal with death very much.
62. Reading makes me tired.
63. I don't drink coffee.
64. I can be somewhat militant in my anti-smoking stance.
65. I've always been better with words than numbers, but in recent years I've found a beauty in math that I never recognized before.
66. I can recite and/or recognize many lines from many movies and tv shows. I am a Simpsons encyclopedia.
67. I've never broken any bones. For I am mighty!
68. I like my tighty-whiteys!
69. I have never been in a car accident. Yeah...I'm an excellent driver...yeah.
70. I think funny thoughts.
71. If there is one phrase that I wish I had the guts to say more often, it would be, "Shut the fuck up!"
72. I believe that certain drivers should be put to death for their actions.
73. I love the sound and feel of rain.
74. It upsets me when children cry for insignificant reasons.
75. I have no trouble understanding homosexuality. I assume that they love their partners in the same way that I love my wife. What's to understand?
76. I sometimes have difficulty relating to other cultures.
77. I've had some friends for 25+ years. Friendship borders on a religion for me.
78. I don't always make a good friend.
79. I will look at a woman's ass no matter what. It's a compulsion.
80. The smell of baking makes me horny.
81. Though I am quite talented at Literary Criticism, I am not particularly well-read.
82. I am envious of talented poets.
83. I believe that a good mattress is the key to a happy life.
84. I enjoy all aspects of technology, though I was never formally trained in any aspect of it.
85. I have a home theater in my basement. It makes me happier than I can explain.
86. I do not know when to stop eating. If it's on my plate, it needs to be eaten.
87. I read Sports Illustrated, Rolling Stone, Atlanta Magazine and Maxim on a regular basis.
88. I check Consumer Reports before making any major purchase.
89. Most of the time, I drink to get drunk. I mean, who am I kidding?
90. I believe in spending more money on something of quality one time, rather than spending less on something cheap several times.
91. I love cherry chocolate chip ice cream. And almost every other kind of ice cream. I also like saying cherry chocolate chip.
92. I get cravings for salty snacks. I will kill you where you stand for a bag of Doritos.
93. I am a hugger.
94. I believe that afternoon naps should be law.
95. I would do anything that a friend or family member asked of me.
96. I have the best brother in the history of brothers.
97. I smile to myself a lot. It makes people suspicious.
98. I dream in color.
99. I like to hold my breath under water.
100. I used to deal blackjack at a bar.
101. I am nearly blind without my glasses or contacts.
102. I have two tattoos.
103. I am a happy person.
Link to this Entry
24 July 2003
The View From Here
I’ve always heard that good writers are particularly adept observers. I’m not sure if this is true or not, but I do strive to see things differently from others. I try to watch people and gauge reactions and sense moods. I am constantly amused by the lives I imagine for those I see around me.
I currently work in a large building with thousands of people. This is a real advantage for me, as I get to watch a fairly healthy cross-section of humanity going about their lives. Elevator glances and lunchroom rumblings allow me project an entire backstory.
“Becky” – Twenty-something girl with straight, blond, shoulder-length hair that she had cut and styled after graduation in order to make herself seem more professional and less of the sorority girl that she still feels like, even though she’d never admit it to anyone. Becky goes home at night and hopes there’s more to being an adult than this. Sometimes she drinks red wine alone, convinced that it will soak in and drive her into adulthood. She gets sad more than she wants and isn’t sure why, but nobody at work will ever know it. She gets tired of acting like someone she isn’t.
“Frank” – Frank laughs a little too much at his own jokes and often doesn’t understand other people’s humor. Frank is a decent guy, but he falls into the corporate wasteland between leader and follower; he is a filler. Frank can get certain tasks done, in his own time. People are appreciative of his efforts, but often talk behind his back. Frank has a wife that he never talks about that loves him very much. He sometimes finds himself thinking about what his life would be like without her and his throat hurts. He can’t wait to see her again.
“Margo” – Margo is in her early forties and has worked hard to eliminate the idea that she may be less competent just because she is a woman. She is smarter than nearly everyone in a given meeting, but she would never say as much, nor would those around her feel intimidated. Margo can manage any situation simply by seeing the correct path through a maze of half-truths and miscommunication. She has a beach house where her mind will drift in off moments. Margo is a lesbian.
“Jim” – Jim is an asshole. He carries himself with unwarranted confidence and imagines himself to be superior in intellect and physical strength to all those around him. Jim will reiterate a point made by someone else at a meeting and truly believe it to be a brilliant, original thought. He had a wife right out of college. She hoped she could change him, but she knew better in her heart. It will be ten years before she trusts a man enough to marry again. Jim likes hobbies that he imagines will get him laid. He can’t sleep at night and is scared. Jim once raped a girl in college, but he doesn’t know it.
“Darla” – Darla can’t see past the travesty of humanity perpetrated by her boss three days ago. She tells everyone about it and nobody cares. It is insignificant. She is insignificant. All things in Darla’s life are out of proportion, including her enormous fake breasts. She will never be happy.
I wonder if people are more or less interesting than I imagine?
Writing experiment time!! Go and observe someone that you don’t know and come and tell me about them. It’s almost like blogger voyeurism, but not quite. Try not to get arrested for stalking, you freaks.
Link to this Entry
23 July 2003
The Sea Was Angry That Day...
I just got this vacation pic from our friends. Believe me when I tell you that I am even more macho in person. Also, the fish that I caught was 200 pounds, easy. And I didn't even come close to getting seasick and throwing up all over the side of the boat. Three times. All of this is true, as far as you know.
Link to this Entry
The blogger you have dialed is busy. Try again later.
Link to this Entry
22 July 2003
Guy Secrets Exposed #2
Today, yet another look into the cavernous and creepy mind of Man.
Topic: Facial Hair.
Men don’t want you to know it, but facial hair is a very important part of our lives. With some exceptions (coughcoughLeocough), men don’t get the opportunity to wear makeup and dress in slinky, clingy dresses. Most never put on $500 strappy shoes and parade gracefully through a crowd of onlookers. Men are bystanders, not bywalkers.
What we do have, is facial hair. It is our only acceptable accessory.
Women always complain about the outrageous female body image that is being thrust upon them by the media. But what about us? Men are always portrayed as needing to be more rugged, yet sensitive. It seems that nothing conveys this look more quickly than the unshaven man; to wit: the busy daddy or the weary construction worker.
During my most influential years, Don Johnson grew a beard on Miami Vice just so he could constantly shave it down to an appropriate stubble. Judging by his face, it was always five o’clock in Miami. Women went crazy for the look.
There I was, a wee little teen with popping-pitch voice and pre-pubescent pimples, praying nightly that I would wake up with a plausible shag of facial growth, just so I could get the ladies. Little did I know that I was still about seven years from any real stubble. Because God hates me.
And thanks to Tom Selleck, we assume that every woman in the world is in love with facial hair. There is no changing our minds on this. The male mind only registers the following:
- Grow facial hair
- Become P.I.
- Move to Hawaii
- Wear crazy Hawaiian shirt
- Wait for supermodels to blow you in your Ferrari
But it all starts with the facial hair. And that, we can do. If there is one task that men can handle, it is the kind where we accomplish something by doing nothing.
“So you are saying I can get laid more by not cutting my face? Okay, I’ll try that. If you want, I’ll stop brushing my teeth, too.”
If you doubt Man’s inability to control the urge to grow facial hair, I will point you to Exhibit A: Upper left hand corner of this page. What the hell is that thing on my chin?!?! What am I thinking?! I have no idea. I can’t control it though. I cannot, will not and dare say, should not, shave it off. I am powerless.
One of my earliest memories is watching my dad shave every morning. He used to give me one of his razors without the blade and he’d let me lather my face using shaving cream from his very hip hot foam machine. From that point in my young life, I knew what cool was. It is cool to cut yourself every morning. Men do this. Even if some men don’t grow facial hair, there is something primal about needing to remove body parts every morning by shaving. Through evolution, it has taken the place of killing a mammoth every morning.
It has! You don’t know!
Link to this Entry
21 July 2003
My weekend makes yours look like a shipwreck on Testicle Punch Island and you’re wearing speed bag underwear.
What I’m trying to say here is that I had a fantastic weekend. I am also trying to say that you are a pathetic, drunken loser with a weak chin. It makes me feel like a Big Man to degrade you. I have issues.
Anywho…enough about how much you suck; let’s talk about me.
On Friday night, by virtue of having better friends than you, I was able to attend the Braves/Mets game in one of the luxury boxes at Turner Field. Wait…that does not do it justice. I saw the Atlanta Braves kick the crap out of the New York Mets from perhaps the best seats in the entire stadium. We were in the only box seats located directly behind home plate with all of the free beer, pizza, chicken wings, hamburgers and ice cream sundaes that somebody else’s money could buy. And again, it was a lovely ass-kicking of a game. Because (say it with me now) The Mets SUCK.
On Saturday, though we had a miserable time trying to get to the movie theater (stop lights conspired against us), we did end up going seeing Finding Nemo. Given my love of all things animated, I was in a little bit o’ heaven. Later, we ate Chinese and sushi and caught up on TiVo’d programming and happily bloated into the evening. And no, the irony of eating raw fish after seeing Finding Nemo is not lost on me. But the Clown Fish Crunch Roll is just irresistible.
Yesterday, we washed our cars in the beautiful Atlanta sunshine and treated ourselves afterward to some Cotton-Candy Explosion ice cream. Yes, it is as good as you are imagining. It has pop-rocks in it. Oh yes it does.
From there we went to a friend’s birthday celebration, where we heartily imbibed beer, ribs, hot dogs and ice cream cake in varying quantities. Also, we went crazy with the X-Box.
I don’t know who I blew in a previous life, but I have got it made in this one.
Link to this Entry
18 July 2003
I’ve had weird high school flashbacks lately. These blips on my consciousness are akin to a stranger coming up to me on the street, punching me in the balls and pulling out my nose hair. What I’m sayin’ is, most high school memories are roundly unpleasant and make me tear up a little.
One pleasing thought did come up yesterday that my mind must have accidentally lost in the fold of otherwise pitiful high school memories.
Her name was Shannon.
Shannon wasn’t ever a girl with whom I fell in love. Nor was she the lead in my deluded high school fantasies. She was simply fresh and sweet, like mint chocolate chip ice cream.
Shannon was a year older than I and she was a prototype. She was small and strong, bottle blonde and had high school cheerleader poise. Captain of the cheerleaders, in fact. Her eyes were Bombay Gin on ice. Her hair was a shoulder length with a stereotypically pert, curly bounce.
She had wow appeal.
Looking at her, one knew that she couldn’t possibly live up to the image. Couldn’t possibly be more than pomp and circumstance. You could sense strangers in the hallways of school looking for the flaw as she walked by. She had to be a cruel, malicious bitch. If you looked like she did, you knew that you’d be a cruel, malicious bitch. It came standard, right? She dated the captain of the football team. She worked at a clothing store. She was involved in everything. She was a cliché.
So I observed her, as many did, with distant curiosity. And some lust. Okay, a lot of lust. But she was too good for my teenage fantasies. I didn’t want to sully her. I wasn’t worthy, even in my dreams.
But opportunity does roll around, even for tremulous teenage boys such as myself.
I was looking for a job at age fifteen because my parents believe in hard work and hold little respect for child labor laws. So off I went, as so many before me, to the local mall. In my best pink button-down oxford and wide burgundy knit tie, I made the rounds. Store-by-store, I told managers of my deep passion to be a stock boy. A life-long goal, really. I applied at around twenty retailers.
But there was only one place that I wanted to be everyday after school.
It was where she was.
I had to be near her. Had to know her. Had to see for myself.
So I walked into the hip clothing store and spoke to the manager and tried desperately not to mention that IOnlyWantToWorkHereToLookAtShannon. Somehow, it worked. I was the new stock boy in the Land Of Shannon.
I started the job in the summer before my junior year and her senior year. My second day on the job, introductions were made.
“Nice to meet you,” I managed, hoping for minimal voice crack.
“Good to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand, “you’re a little cutie!”
Though I knew she meant it in the cute-little-brother-that-I-will-never-ever-ever-ever-sleep-with kinda way, I still felt the blushing blood rushing to my face.
I shook her hand.
She smiled at me.
I was ready to kill for her.
Always the earnest company man, I had worked my way up to Sales Associate by the time the school year started. Throughout the summer and into the school year I would see Shannon at work.
To my delight, I found her to be sweet, but not annoyingly so. She just was. Not an act. Not trying too hard. If you knew her long enough, you could sense that she hid the same teen insecurities that so many others couldn’t escape. Her flaws were the flaws of everyone. And that made her even more appealing.
We became fast friends. She laughed at everything I said and we would often look to work the same shifts, closing down the store in the evenings.
In a short time, I forgot that she was a Dream Girl.
She was just Shannon, my beautiful, kind friend.
Homecoming queen nominations were announced.
Shannon was one of ten nominees.
When she came into work that afternoon, she was so excited and happy. She couldn’t believe she was nominated.
She honestly had no idea how fantastic she was.
The night before the homecoming queen was to be announced, I was alone with Shannon in the store. Time to close up for the night.
I walked over and joined her in the re-folding of a scattered pile of shirts.
“So, what do you think about this Homecoming Queen stuff? I bet it’s pretty exciting, huh?” I asked.
“I’m all nervous,” she laughed, “I don’t want to stand up in front of all of those people.”
“Have you got your speech worked out yet?” I inquired.
“Speech? What do you mean?” she said, increasingly nervous.
“When they announce you as the Homecoming Queen, you’ll have to give a little speech,” I said.
“I am not gonna be the homecoming queen. I don’t need to worry about that,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Um…yeah, I think you are. Everyone loves you,” I stated plainly.
“All of the girls on the court are popular, I’m pretty sure I won’t win,” she retorted.
“Yeah, but what if you do,” I asked. “What are you going to say then?”
“I have no idea. I’ll probably just clam right up. What do you think I should say?” she asked.
“Clearly, you need to thank me for all of my support,” I began.
“Well, clearly,” she laughed.
“And then I think you should say you are honored to be with all of the other girls, because everyone always says that…” I continued.
“Then I think you should say how great the school is and talk about how we are going to win the Homecoming game. Everyone will love that!”
“Very good,” she said, “except I’m not gonna be Homecoming Queen.”
“Yes, you are,” I said adamantly. “Jesus, you’re only the most beautiful girl in the school. How could you not win? You’re perfect!”
She looked at me at first with a surprised smile. And then it faded.
Holy shit, I just told her that she’s beautiful; she’s seen right through me.
“I’m not perfect,” was all she said, in such a sad way that I wanted to hold her.
And now, I had a worse thought:
She thinks I only see the outside, like everyone else.
We closed the store.
I’m sitting in the back row on a ramp of pull out wooden gym bleachers with my two friends, my back against the concrete block wall.
In front of me is the entire student body, 700 or so strong, talking and murmuring and generally happy to have a diversion to take them from the classroom.
In front of the mass of people are the ten girls that make up the pretty and the popular of our school. All nervous, all smiling, this rite of high school rolling nearly to a boil.
I look at Shannon from my far-off perch. She is smiling and red-faced and talking to the other girls. She looks out at the crowd and then quickly away.
I continue to study her. I am another of the observers that she must surely despise by now. Always staring. Always looking for the flaw.
I'm nervous for her. I don’t know if I want her to win or lose. I don’t know what will make her happy.
And now all the noise leaves my ears and I see blackness in my peripheral vision and I can look at nothing but her.
The principal begins his comments and the crowd cheers each of the girls in turn and I hear none of it. Can’t stop staring.
The winner is…
From her face I can see that she is...sad? No. Shocked?
I can hear now. Hear the shouts now. Everyone is standing and applauding now.
Shannon steps forward.
Everyone yells and claps. For their Queen.
I can't stop smiling.
The rumbling subsides.
The crowd sits and awaits her quiet voice.
She has the microphone and is as crimson as the cape they have thrown over her shoulders.
“I don’t know what to say…”
The crowd cheers again.
I feel my throat tighten. My eyes are burning.
“I really don’t. I guess more than anything, I want to thank…”
Oh. Dear. God.
Don’t do it.
In front of everyone in the world that I know, I lose my anonymity.
A few heads in front of me turn. My friends on either side of me sit with slackened jaws. Then, in a wave, 700 sets of eyes are on me. Wondering who I am. Wondering why she is thanking me. Wondering what my flaws must be.
“I want to thank him for believing in me more than I believed in me. I had no idea.”
That is her entire speech.
I look down at her and smile as she puts her hand above her eyes and squints to look for me.
She sees me and waves.
And I am somebody.
Link to this Entry
17 July 2003
There’s a new sheriff in town. I’m the law ‘round here now.
Hell, more than that, I’m fixin’ to be Judge, Jury and Executioner. I will also settle for “Sexicutioner”. You may address me as Judge See Dub-You, Your Royal Sexiness, or simply God. All are acceptable. Failure to comply will result in a meaty swat to the back of your head. With my Bat O’ Justice.
There are some new laws on the books under my reign. The following will no longer be allowed:
DWO - Driving While Octogenarian. At a certain point, you just don’t have the right to drive anymore. The tests are gonna get a lot more complicated to get a license under my rule. For instance, you will have to know the fucking difference between the fucking gas pedal and the fucking brake pedal. This law may also have some crossover with another of my new laws...
DWS. Those found to be Driving While Stupid will get dragged from their cars (likely SUVs) and be beaten with a 19” 2001 Goodyear Steelbelted Radial. Don’t ask me what qualifies as DWS, I’ll know ya when I see ya (hint: the “I Heart Soccer” bumper sticker ain’t a good start).
Childesity. Parents that allow their kids to get obese will have the kids taken from them and the parents will then be beaten to death with a plate of Popeye’s Extra Spicy Chicken Wings. There is no mentally and physically crueler thing to do to a child than to allow him to overeat and underexercise. It is unconscionable.
80’s Hair. If you have a haircut that anyone remembers Andrew Ridgely or Cyndi Lauper having, you will be shaved from head to toe and throw in a vat of salt water.
Emailicide. If you are found to have completely murdered the English language in any email correspondence, you will be immediately seized and have copy of Merriam-Webster’s 11th Collegiate® Dictionary shoved straight up your ass.
Obviousfuscation. If someone is sitting around and, say, reading a book and you come up to them and ask, “Hey! Whatcha doin?”, you will be gathered up and thrown into the bottom of a Port-O-Potty during a Warp Tour concert.
Eardrumming. If you are playing music on your headphones so loud that I can smell the lead singer’s breath, you will be pulled aside and flogged about your ears and genitals with a Jethro Tull box set until such time as you bleed from the aforementioned areas.
Now, new laws often meet with resistance. Some of you will say, “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Well, I’ll tell ya. I’m CW.
I’m the law in these parts.
Link to this Entry
16 July 2003
Sometimes It’s Easier
Though the shyness weighed on every part of his being, he had bits of stable refuge from the isolation. He knew that the thought of her could stave off the impending panic he often felt. He’d see her occasionally and she would smile and he’d shift his eyes quickly away, but he would hold onto the moment for the rest of the day, telling no one. He saw her acts of kindness and heard her laugh. Sometimes he sensed that she really cared about him, too. He could see that look that he assumed lovers get, knowing glances and shared jokes.
She didn’t know him. She’d never met him. Never had a sense of the twinge he felt at seeing her. She’d never seen the signs.
She held within herself a longing of her own. Her need was less specific, less directed. She knew only that she yearned to be held when she lay down on her spongy mattress at night. The bed was never warm. It was never a comfort.
The weary commuter line pulled forward with a tug.
They sat two feet from each other, back to back.
He breathed in a nervous, staccato rhythm, shiver-shifting in his own skin. He wanted desperately to turn to her and tell her how sweet and kind and wonderful he found her to be. He felt his body turn to lead at the thought. Nothing would move. He hated himself.
She sat with her hands in her lap, lost in lonely thoughts. She felt depression flow over the back of her tongue and catch in her throat. Tears singed her eyes. She unconsciously reached up to wipe them away with an angry hand. When she pulled the hand away, she looked at the back of it and saw it smeared with inky mascara. She felt pathetic. As she stared at the smudge, her sadness deepened.
From behind her, she heard, “Are you okay?”
She turned and saw a man facing away from her.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Just wondering if you’re okay. You seem sad.”
“I’m just overwhelmed today, is all,” she said quietly.
“Oh. Okay. I-I’m…sorry. I hope you’re alright,” he stuttered.
She thanked him and fell back into faraway thoughts.
He raged with self-loathing.
And then, he was sad for her.
Sad for them.
Link to this Entry
15 July 2003
I was watching a special on MTV this past weekend entitled True Life: I'm a High School Senior. It tracked the journey of several kids from two different schools through much of their final year of high school.
It was painful to watch.
You know how sometimes you hear that old theme song from your high school prom or look at some locked-in-time photographs of younger days and every memory of the time and place tumbles down upon you and swallows your self-esteem whole?
Okay, maybe you don't.
But I do.
Watching the program made me nauseous. There are feelings that one learns to compartmentalize over time. Traumas, sights, sounds, loves. The mind pushes them to a little room, because though these feelings have built your personality, they shouldn't necessarily ever see the light of day again. But when something triggers the latch on the door to that little room, all of the memories and feelings spill onto the floor like sand. You can't pick them up and put them away fast enough.
As the more astute members of the audience may have gathered, I had a somewhat awkward high school experience. I was neither popular nor unpopular. Neither known nor unknown. Not happy or sad. I was just so ordinary. And I knew it. Feeling ordinary is harder to accept than anything else. It has a certain hopelessness to it.
Why did everything seem like it was absolutely important then? Very nearly the day after I graduated, I came to the realization that none of it mattered. I became the person that I knew I could be. Much more outgoing. Happier. Extraordinary.
But then I see these kids going through the whirlwind. Caught up in it. The monumental, seemingly life-altering twists of fate that tear at you and make you wonder if the world is always going to be so unfair. I want to shake them and tell them that NONE OF IT MATTERS!!
But I guess it does matter. I guess we need that little room in our mind. I guess we need to pass through there to get to here.
I need to go throw up.
Link to this Entry
14 July 2003
So it turns out that Stonehenge is a great big ol' hairy vagina. Yeah. Bet that woke ya up a little.
Lest ye doubt the veracity of my assertion, this should clear things up. Ancient calendar, my ass.
How did we get through around 5000 years of humanity looking at this thing and no guy walked by before and said, "Dude, check out the stone crotch!" Men, we have let down humanity. It's all so obvious now.
According to the article, "Stonehenge's inner bluestone circle represents the labia minora and the giant outer sarsen stone circle is the labia majora. The altar stone is the clitoris and the open center is the birth canal." Tell me that the model for this didn't get teased by the other Druish princesses. Also, you didn't need to tell me that the altar stone is the clitoris; one cannot have a successful marriage unless he prays to it regularly.
Does it strike anyone as possible that perhaps this retired Canadian gynecologist may be a bit off his rocker? I mean, the guy has been looking at foofers for around 40 years. I get the feeling that his perspective may have skewed. Imagine his home life:
"Becky, do ya see that wading pool over there? Vagina. See the pillow on the couch? Vagina. Jar of mustard? Vagina."
"Dad, have you taken your medication today?"
"Becky, dear Becky. I don't need medication. I'm perfectly lucid. Besides, the medicine bottle is a vagina."
Next thing you know, scientists will be telling us that other monuments are sexual. Pyramids are just ancient Egyptian titties. Washington Monument? Dong. Great Wall of China? Mondo rubber.
For now though, all we have is the Stonehenge Snatch. God bless the Druids.
Link to this Entry
11 July 2003
The Addict's Tools
Man, that is such a cool title, I wish I was writing something that could live up to it. But, no.
I have many addictions and vices, but of them, television is my greatest. Unlike many people, I think that TV taught me as much as it corrupted me when I was growing up. And if you think about it, television is one of those things that has the ability to immediately bind people with a common thread, similar to shared love of literature or music.
To feed my addiction, I purchased a Direct TV TiVo a couple of months ago. Though I am adding new shows all of the time, I started to notice that my current listing of consistently recorded shows could give you a bit of insight into my personality. Some of you will like me a little more after reading the list, others will be ashamed and saddened. You can all bite me in equal measure.
And now, the list:
Inside the Actors Studio
CSI (Caruso-free edition)
Insomniac with Dave Attell
The King of Queens
What Not To Wear
The Amazing Race
Curb Your Enthusiasm
Beg, Borrow and Deal
If ya have any other suggestions, I'm dyin' for a new fix.
Link to this Entry
10 July 2003
Snap Out Of It
On reality television and in reality life lately, I have been witnessing the male of our species attempting to fluff feathers in an effort to attract a female. It is, in most cases, unbearably disturbing to watch. Men, I am here today to assist you. Think of me as that old guy from Happy Days that later became the really good old karate master dude. You are my pupil. You may call me Sensei. Or Morpheus. Ooo, yeah, call me Morpheus, I like that a lot better. Also, bow to me a lot.
Although I have a feeling that many of you have the “wax off” part of the training down, I will give you a few tips in some other areas. Just trust me on these, I’m here to help. Remember, sometimes the truth hurts.
First, let’s start with a little honesty. Stand in front of your mirror. Look at yourself. Don’t just do your normal, “Hey, I look pretty good today” as you lick your palm and slick down the few remaining strands of hair that cling to your head like the last passengers on the Titanic. Really look at yourself. Yeah, not real attractive are ya? But that’s ok! We’ve identified the problem and you can be fixed. Here are a few things that may help many of you…
What’s going on there between your eyebrows? If God had intended hair to be there, that’s where your hairline would’ve started. You need to trim up that pelt on a regular basis. Here’s the thing, though: Don’t go crazy! Just a little plucking between the eyebrows is ok, but unless you’re starring in your own one-man show on Broadway called Tales From The Back Door, don’t be “shaping” your eyebrows. The goal here is to remove the illusion that your eyebrows are attacking and eating your forehead, not to make you look like Kelly Ripa.
Now look at your hair. Use a mirror, moron. Ok, there are a couple of things that could be counted as demerits here. First, if you are bald or going bald, ya aren’t fooling anyone with that hat. Women aren’t walking around thinking, “Man, I wish he’d just take that hat off so I could see the long, flowing Gunner Nelson hair underneath.” Dude, they can tell. We all can tell. Hats, toupees, wigs, bonnets, do-rags (ugh), whatever. Don’t do it. “So,” you may be thinking to yourself, “I guess if I can’t wear anything to cover my baldness, I should just take some hair and comb it right over the bald area.” Um, no. Giving the impression that you are trying to trick the world with a comb-over only makes you look like a jackass in about 1,000 different ways. Don’t try to fool a woman. They don’t like to be fooled. Maybe if you would stop getting your hair cut at Dixie Bob’s House Of Cuttin’ and Country Line Dancin’, you could get an honest-to-goodness good-looking ‘do. Go to a female hairstylist. Or a gay hairstylist. An honest one. One that will say to you, “Baby, your hair is a joke.” The point is, you want someone styling your hair that can tell you what is attractive on a man. If possible, make sure there is a large southern black woman in the salon at the same time, because girlfriend will tell you if your head looks like a chimp ass. So, if you are bald or going bald, embrace it. I think it’s a good look, especially if it’s nicely trimmed and styled. And I guarantee you that there are women out there that like bald guys. Trust me.
On the other end of the scale, we have guys attempting abnormally long hair and ponytails. You have to be a certain kind of guy to pull this off and I’ll give you a little tip right here: You are not that kind of guy. Get thee to an honest stylist.
Okay. Your clothes. What the hell are you doing there? Your Dockers are not working. That shirt is a disaster. Women judge just like we do – first impressions can make or break. There can be an amazing transformation in a person just by having the right clothes. It doesn’t matter if you can't afford the expensive stuff. Just get clean, pressed clothes that fit you right. There are people to help you with this. Don’t decide for yourself what looks good on you. You haven’t a clue. If you did, you wouldn’t be having so much trouble finding a woman. Get an honest salesperson, a brutal female friend or (even better) a gay friend to help. If you don’t have a gay friend, then get one. What the hell is wrong with you?
Keep your fingernails trimmed pretty short. I won’t go into the reasons, but women will love you for it. Short. Always.
Now, about your personality. Do you think you can be less of a dickwad on a regular basis? Seriously. Nobody wants to hear that fascinating story about how you got sooo drunk that one time and puked on yourself. You know how you always hear people saying, “Just be yourself”? They aren’t talking about you. You need to be someone else. Try to be some kind of quiet, smiling, listening superhero. You need to be confident in yourself. When I say confident, I don’t mean that you should be constantly thinking about how you could bang any girl in the room if you wanted. Dumbass. Just believe in yourself. Not too much. Easy. Eaaaasy. Okay. Now lose every cheesy line that you’ve ever heard or tried. Just tell a girl how you feel. Be unassuming. Be funny if you are funny. If you aren’t funny, ya need to know that too. Quick test – when you say something “funny”, are you the only one laughing? Are the people around you awkwardly breathing out in a spastic laughing gesture? Are their eyes shifting, as they look for the nearest exit? If so, then stop trying to be funny.
A few final tips:
- Wear a nice but unpretentious watch.
- Women notice shoes. Have fashionable, clean shoes.
- Get that gnarled mess of teeth fixed. And while you’re at it, how about a mint Captain Halitosis? Also, Crest Whitestrips actually work. Look into it if you have teeth like Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge.
- Maybe hit the gym now and then. Women don’t always like to be with a guy that could be 10 seconds away from a heart attack.
- Smell nice. Not so nice that people can smell you coming from five blocks away.
- Be kind and do little things for a woman. When she isn’t expecting it. Unless you are a stalker.
There really is someone out there for everyone. Put forth a little effort in personal appearance and personality.
And for the love of God, do something about that shag rug growing on your back.
Link to this Entry
09 July 2003
I'm Ready For My Close-Up
I am not yet rich and famous. Internet, I blame you for this.
Your job from this point forward is to find a way to make me famous. Not infamous, you jackass, FAY-MUSS! Use all of the resources at your disposal (INCLUDING BRIBERY!).
Some of you may say, "CW, you need to work hard and have proven talent to make it big."
WRONG, numbnuts! I give you two words: Ashton Kutcher. He is also from Iowa and can be mildly funny. He has better abs than me, but if you people would hurry up and make me rich and famous, I could hire a personal trainer. So, you see, again this is YOUR FAULT.
Click on the Blogarama link down to the right. Review my site. Explain how I am a sexy teenage girl if you must, but MAKE. ME. FAMOUS. Send pleas to entertainment industry mogul types that Hollywood needs more people like me. Tell publishers that you will quit reading entirely until I am published.
I am fully prepared to start a drinking binge and enter rehab by the end of the year. I will date Colin Farrell . I will get caught on a beach naked with all three of Charlie's Angels. I am willing to do my part!
Link to this Entry
08 July 2003
Do You Think?
Do you think that it will serve you
To rage and scream and yell?
Do you think that it will calm you
When your voice has gone to hell?
Do you think that you can change things
As the world begins to seethe?
Do you think that anger saves you
After those that loved you leave?
Man, what the hell was that? I just started typing and there it was. Bizarre. I know, I’m basically the worst poet ever. Never been good at it. I’ve always envied those that were. Not to mention that this particular poem seems to be against rage and anger, which is absolutely not my philosophy. I’m all for rage! Love the rage! Also, there seems to be some hint of a religious undertone there, which is nearly laughable. I mean, I just made a joke about Jesus and Mother Teresa going to Vegas yesterday; religious, I am not.
Wait. Do you suppose that God is speaking through my pagan mouth in order to reach the masses? NICE TRY, BUTTMUNCH! WE AIN’T BUYIN’ WHAT YER SELLING OVER HERE!! TAKE THAT SALVATION SHIT SOMEWHERE ELSE!! YOU'LL NEVER GET ME TO SLFDJJLFJFF…sfljfsfsf…
God is great. I am misguided. Never listen to me agaiS>>>
NOT SO FAST THERE GOD!! NOBODY INTERRUPTS THIS BLOG!! YOU THINK YOU’RE SO GREAT JUST BECAUSE YOU ALLEGEDLY CREATED TREES AND THE SUN AND SHIT! WELL, BIG FUCyrocdfyhs…
Also, my son, I created boobies.
The man makes a good point. I still don’t believe in him, but I will take back the buttmunch comment. BUT DON’T PUSH YOUR LUCK, MOTHERFueresesesfdf…
Go in peace, my children.
Link to this Entry
07 July 2003
The Rock! It’s Red! Glare.
Did I have a good 4th of July? Well, let’s see…
My wife returned from her niece-watching expedition in the Motherland last Thursday, with her father in tow. She booked a one-way ticket to Iowa with the intention of driving back to Atlanta with him. Which is exactly how it happened. That’s right, she willingly spent nearly twenty hours over two days in a car with her father.
Now, twenty hours alone in a car with anyone can be taxing. Even if Mother Teresa were to road trip it to Vegas with Jesus, you just know that by hour fifteen she’d be plotting where to bury him in the desert so that nobody would find the body. I mean, the whole trip he’d be like, “Hey, did I mention what my dad and I did last weekend? Earthquake. Yeah, what’d you do?”
That shit just gets old after a while.
And now I’ve horribly, horribly digressed.
So. Her father. Turns out their trip went pretty well. In a way, I envy her. As we get older, many of us don’t always get the chance to have good, long conversations with our father, if we are among the fortunate few to still have him in our lives. She was able to talk through some touchy and touching subjects and just be with him. She’ll have that forever.
Her dad is an interesting guy. He is from a very small town in Iowa and he has remained in a small town for most of his years. I’m talking one teeny-tiny town. There are more people working in one department of the building I am in right now than live in his hometown.
There are great benefits and mighty limitations to living the small town life for so long. He is opinionated and stubborn. He is independent and driven. He is focused and predictable. He is stern and kind. I’m not even sure how many of those traits, if any, are bad.
He had his own small printing business from which he retired several years ago. It never made him a rich man, but it did allow him to be his own man. He put a large capital “A” in Type A personality. He survived a heart attack and corresponding quintuple bypass nearly ten years ago, allowing him to live longer than any man in the known history of his family. This means that he went through most of his life fully expecting to die by age 55. And perhaps because of this, he made some interesting choices in life: he is a veteran; he raced cars; he attempted many hobbies, squeezing every bit of knowledge and excitement from them before moving on, never to look back.
He was a smoker and his face is still lined as if it’s permanently pinched into an inhaled pucker. It gives him character and charm and makes you wonder what kinds of sadness he hides behind the blue eyes. He gave up the cigarettes immediately after the heart attack, nearly without a thought. Forty years and it ends. Because that is what needed to be done.
In the ten years since my wife and I moved away from Iowa, he had never come to visit us. Always too busy. Always an excuse. It made my wife sadder than I think she ever let on and only made me angry.
But things change. He has mellowed since his retirement. Type A is now only a Type A-minus at worst. He’s a man that has discovered some of the pleasure of living longer than seemed possible. Different things have taken priority. Which is why, I’m guessing, he called his daughter a couple of months ago and told her he might just like to drive down here with her after she came up for her visit.
He came on his own terms and at his own time, but he did come. Like he said he would.
We had a great weekend together, grilling out and showing him our city and talking. He had a genuinely good time. He was relaxed. Maybe for the first time, he felt like family to me.
My wife is many parts of her father, smart and sometimes stubborn and kind and hard-working. Without him, I wouldn’t have the woman that I love.
So yeah, I had a good 4th of July.
Link to this Entry
03 July 2003
A new line has been drawn marking whether or not you are allowed to speak to me. If you spell vacuum v-a-c-u-m-e, please kill yourself.
It's not that I'm incredibly smart, it's that so many people around me are dumber than a box of Q-Tips.
And also, I am incredibly smart.
Jesus, vacume? Are you kidding me?
And then, then if you say to me, "Huh, is that how that's spelled?", do not be surprised if I lunge forward and stab you in the larynx with a highlighter.
You have been warned.
Link to this Entry
02 July 2003
Stream Of Unconscious
As inspired by one of my favorite bloggers, I've decided to just let the words flow today. I have no idea what any of this means, it's just part of the clutter in my head...
"Isn't love supposed to be easier than this? Why are you constantly testing and pushing and questioning? You shove me away every time you open your mouth and I'm sick of it. And I'm sick of you for putting me through it. And I'm sick of trying so hard. Goddamnit."
"Ah yes, the sad cries of the innocent. Jesus, how I'm getting sick of that routine. Maybe if you hadn't been so eager to give up at every turn. Love shouldn't be hard, but it should be strong. Strong enough to withstand an disagreement or an insult or an angry outburst. But you're a quitter and always will be. You hold onto a grudge more than you hold onto me."
"See? See what you do? It's always about me. My fault. My problem. Why don't you accept some fucking responsiblity, you self-righteous asshole?"
"Do not preach to me about responsibility. You're the one that can't hold a decent job. You're the one that's too stupid to finish anything.”
“I must be stupid, I’ve been with your ugly, pathetic ass for far too long. You know what I think? I think you like to fight, cuz you always come back for more, don’t ya? You’re crazy is what you are and all of our friends know it.”
“One look at you and it’s tough to argue that I’m crazy. Only crazy people stay with someone so obviously beneath them. And they’re my friends not yours. None of them ever liked you. Believe me.”
“You are so fucking shallow, I can’t believe I ever loved you.”
“This is over.”
Link to this Entry
01 July 2003
Got a new bed recently. Love it. However, can someone please tell me when they started to make beds so thick and high that you need to hire a friggin' Sherpa to get into the thing? Jesus, I got vertigo this morning when I looked down at the floor. All I want a bed for is sleeping and the occasional monkey sex with leather zippered submissive mask. It shouldn't be an Extreme Sport to mount and dismount the goddamned thing, is what I'm sayin'.
Fuckin' mattress mafia.
Link to this Entry