| I told you |
[08 Jul 2009|10:45pm] |
This is why I can't have nice things. One post in and I had to take an enormous break and even then this is excruciating.
To be fair, I'm in a sort of detox right now. I recently decided to cut caffeine completely out of my diet. I've had caffeine in my system since I was 9 years old. I haven't felt like this much shit in...really ever. When I went on the trip to Europe and didn't beat off for three weeks, I felt better than I do at this moment sitting here in a comfortable chair with the promise of masturbation probably immediately after I finish typing this entry.
Though, to be honest, I feel so terrible it won't be great masturbating. At this point it's just sort of routine. I'll be sitting here with my laptop in a room that's actually too warm to wear boxers and I think it's actually illegal to be naked, sweaty and not close to orgasm.
I tried to think of all the situations where there's a chance you'll end up sweaty and naked and have nothing to do with sex and it comes down to surprised by wild animal while undressing and you have to run away from it before you can put underwear on, impotent on a ridiculously hot day, or ancient olympian.
I hesitated the type the last one because in the end, you don't know. Tell me with a straight face the ancient olympians didn't find a way to cum a few minutes after they just bounded down the track chasing or being chased by many naked men. They loved that shit. If it were physically possible to get an erection in the middle of the marathon, they all would have been popping their freaky greek boners from town to town, delighting all of the other freaky greek men and causing a brutal wave of freaky greek boners.
Do you see what happens when I don't get my daily lethal dose of caffeine? Not to mention my bones are getting stronger because of this and it's pissing me off. They're getting heavy with all the calcium they can finally support and getting upstairs has become even more of a chore. sometimes I think my bones are so damn strong and I'm so lacking in the chemical enhancements category that I might as well just lie at the bottom of the stairs and wait for the sweet release of death to free me from this torment of hydration and general crabbery.
sometimes I think about Trainspotting or Requiem for a Dream and think "fuck you guys, you just had sweating, malaise, anxiety, depression, priapism, cramps, sneezing, crying, runny nose, insomnia, chills, muscle and bone aches, vomiting, diarrhea and a fever. Do you have any idea how hard it is getting your day started without caffeine?" That's right, make a movie about that shit, it'd scare every half to goddamn death.
I've started keeping a journal by my bed and I write in it for five minutes right after I wake up. I call it "thoughts upon waking" and there is a definite change in subject matter since I've changed my diet which I believe is described perfectly in the entry from the morning of July 6th.
"Fuck every ounce of this. Sometimes I wish I was dead and I had a dream about a spider so big you could hear its footsteps on a hardwood floor and it could jump ten feet. I don't think there's a word for a spider's footsteps because they don't have feet and nobody gives a shit about spiders. That's why they're the perfect hunters. I'm not sure if my erection means I have to pee or I really love spiders."
Compared to an entry from June 16th
"There aren't enough flavors of ice cream to paint pictures with. I think painting a picture with colorful flavors of ice cream would really get everyone excited about rocky road again. 'Shit, another cotton candy and key lime inspired piece? I could really go for some ice cream that looks like diarrhea now.'"
I went from lighthearted, diarrhea related thought patterns to spiders that are large enough to make a noise with every step and can jump ten goddamn feet in the fucking air. This shit is stupid, fuck all of you, I want my goddamn caffeine. Shit.
[Note: After submitting this and going to take a whiz, I thought of "I would suck your dick for a frappuccino." You see, it's funny because most guys who drink frappuccinoes are already very acquantined with sucking dicks.]
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| Paging Dr. Faggot |
[13 Jun 2009|07:44pm] |
So it looks like maybe I'm writing here again. I'm loathe to even say that becuase I fear I won't be able to keep up with regular updates. It's not that I'm unable to sit myself down and stick to schedule, more that I get halfway through writing something and become disgusted with it.
Granted, in a journal that contains a shemale with a giant cock and nipple-cocks cumming on a similarly cock-nippled shemale, becoming disgusted seems all too easy.
So let's assume you're reading this and you know me. In fact, let's take it a step further and say you've known me (or at least known of me) for a few years. Maybe you've even read this before. What's new? What's happening in my life that's caused me to sit down in front of the keyboard and get back to work entertaining you all with my misery?
I sat here for five minutes trying to come up with something snappy, but the fact that I couldn't speaks volumes. Nothing has happened. Nothing has changed in my life in 4 years. It might be a good thing, of course, if I had a good life before I left for college, but if you're one of those people that's known me since then you know nothing about my life when I graduated was particularly fantastic.
It's not easy being an extreme underachiever. My apathy is at an all time high, and yet I entertain the most hopeful of ideas.
For instance, my dick is beautifully maintained. I've got the hair down there trimmed to a tasteful length and this shit could be in porn it's so good looking. Now, you're asking yourself two questions, and they're both "why?"
Why one: Why are you doing that?
Good question. I'm still the only person that has an business down there. It's kind of like polishing your car's engine. Maybe you do it to feel good about yourself; it's nice to know that under the hood is a bunch of sparkling chrome that looks like it came straight from the pages of a car enthusiast's wet dream. Unfortunately, maybe five or six people will ever see the work you do unless you just whip it out in front of a bunch of people who really don't care about it and would get very annoyed at your uninteresting display.
Why two: Why did you tell me this?
That's not a good question. Why wouldn't I? I'm suffering through living a sexless existence and I'll be god-damned if you're going to sit there all comfortable-like the entire time. Keep up this snarky attitude and I'll start talking about something worse. What's worse than this? I don't know, and you don't want to either, so let's move on. Dick.
In a strange way, my continued lack of pussy-getting is another way in which I retain some kind of hope. A few months ago, two very large women flat out offered me some sex. We met in a neutral location and they put a briefcase on the table. The latches flipped open and they spun it around. There it was, a bunch of sex, no strings attached. Pow.
Now, are you an observant reader? Very large women. No thank you, "ladies" My penis isn't especially long, I doubt I could fuck you even if I shut my eyes real tight and imagined you were Salma Hayek. I mentioned the penis length because I doubt I could push hard enough to reach the pussy I can't imagine you're able to reach and clean because of the large roll of fat I see you've so subtly tucked into your pants.
Is it mean to say things like that? Absolutely, but too fucking bad. If they don't like it, they can eat a reasonable amount of food and maybe take a walk on those chunky bloated limbs that used to be legs. They weren't chubby, or "plus-sized" or even "full figured." they were fat. Unhealthy fat. You wouldn't coddle me if I was an alcoholic or if I smoked ten packs a day, so don't expect me to treat you like ntohings wrong while you shovel shit down your gullet. Eat less, lose weight, get fit and make me regret ever typing these words, that'll work a lot better than just telling me you're comfortable in your skin.
I could be comfortable bathing in diarrhea every day, it doesn't make it ok.
Anyway, I got off on a tangent there, but trimming my pubes and turning down guaranteed pussy are strange because it's like I still believe some pretty girl and I are going to hit it off some day. I also believe in Santa.
Self loathing? Check. Angry paragraph about fat people? Check. Alienated readership? Check.
It's good to be back
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| How long until Photobucket deletes this one |
[21 Apr 2008|03:50pm] |
I feel like I've been a little too serious lately and I've been slacking off in the "horrible and disturbing images" department. I've let far too many holidays pass by without posting a picture of Blake getting it on with his muscley manfriends, and I can't believe it's been over a year since I've typed the word "dickgirl."
With that in mind, if you'll be so kind, take a gander behind the cut. Unless you're at work.
I can't stress this enough. Do not go behind the cut if you could get in trouble for, well, I can't describe it
( OH NO )
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| Power, flanked by Wisdom and Courage: My penis |
[20 Apr 2008|09:52pm] |
So I decided against posting the gigantic entry i'd cooked up recently. Every time I wrote it, it got more and more depressing and I didn't feel like bothering people with it. You've all got your own shit to deal with, you don't need to hear about mine.
So I tried to write a couple posts where I wrote about things other people were writing about because I'm too lazy to think of subjects of my own and I'm pretty sure I'm a better writer anyhow. Every post I wrote ended up being too cocky and offensive because I just might actually be a bad person and some of the subjects I touched on just aren't meant to be talked about like that.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm bottling a bunch of emotions up inside and one day I'm going to get pushed over the edge and explode. I'm hoping that it's an out of body experience because I'd like to see what people are talking about when they say they want to see me get really mad.
I've been told many times that an angry me might be sexy, which really hurts me to hear. I know I'm not going to get really truly angry. I don't care about anything enough to get deeply and passionately angry about anything, so I suppose that means I'll never be sexy.
I'm ok with that. I know there are many things I'm great at that most people aren't. God knows I've peer edited hundreds of stories both fiction and non and not a single one was worth the time and energy I spent reading it. I don't know many people that can say they've ever run a mile under 5 minutes (even if it was years ago when I was in shape and I collapsed beside the track afterwards and stared up at the sky waiting to die until a helpful black man came by to see if I was dead) and I've been told that, at times and in small doses, I can be funny and/or enjoyable to be around.
However, I've come to terms with the fact that anything involving the word "sex," or any area related to anything containing the word "sex" just won't be an area of my expertise. Typical dork, I spose.
It's things like this that make me wish I could go ahead and skip ahead to being 50 years old, trapped in a marriage with a woman I'm slowly learning to hate. I'm already prepared for that shit.
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| I obey |
[14 Apr 2008|11:19pm] |
So I do have a substantial post mostly finished, but Michelle tagged me for a six word memoir thing and I can't let her down. Just look at that punum. Here it is:
My penis is enormous. And veiny.
That was easy
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| In which my penis travels to vegas and comes back without a rash |
[20 Mar 2008|08:26pm] |
So over the weekend I spent a couple days in vegas with my dad, my brother and a family friend. Hilarity ensued.
Unfortunately for you, the hilarity was in the form of anecdotes, and they wouldn't be funny unless you knew everyone.
I didn't expect to have as much fun in Vegas as I did. Despite being a blond haired, blue-eyed christian of Germanic heritage, I'm very jewish with my money. I dont get paid much, and I'm fully aware of the horrible nature of the decisions I make, so gambling just doesn't seem like a good idea.
A few gin and tonics later I found myself standing at a craps table sandwiched between a lewd german dealer and a bunch of drunk canadians celebrating their friend's 30th birthday, laughing and high fiving no matter what was said. Even though I was pretty toasted, I played it conservative, choosing to stick to the pass line and the odds. My strategy paid off and by the end of the trip I was 400 dollars richer.
The G'n'Ts flowed like water, cigars were enjoyed and I ate a 50 dollar steak that was easily the absolute best 16oz of meat I've ever eaten in my entire life. It was so good I'm convinced that even the most hardcore PETA activist would see the light after one bite.
"Animals have feelings too and uh.....and you...shouldn't......what is this seasoning? is all meat this tender? Is that roasted hen of the woods on the side there? scoot over."
So what if the meal cost 250 dollars, it was worth every cent and more. I would gladly kill each and every one of you sons of bitches just to get another taste of that meat. The taste was so intense, it punched a hole through the fabric of reality. My tongue entered a universe of pure flavor.
The restaurant itself was so classy they even had cum waiters that came by and cleaned my pants after the first bite. Exagerrating? not likely. The steak was so good that I'm a little ashamed to be writing about it. It was so good to even write about it is offensive. Meat that delicious is above the vulgar construct that is human language. When it came to my table, i was advised to avert my eyes lest my unworthy gaze soil the food.
In fact, saying that I ate it is a little presumptuous. I experienced it. It was as if it was placed before me and a choir of angels sang to me and fondled my balls until I passed out. When I came to I was filled with a sense of deep physical and spiritual satisfaction.
But I knew something like that was going to come from the beginning of the trip. I drank a 24 oz rockstar on the drive down to the desert and, while I was waiting for my comrades to land at the airport, despite drinking no other fluid in over 12 hours and starting the trip with an empty bladder, I filled up over 48 oz of can-space with urine. I didn't feel like leaving my car and the cans were just sitting around not doing anything.
Somewhere in the middle of that miracle-pee, I realized that with a beginning like that, it was at very least going to be a magical experience even if I wasn't a fan of Las Vegas. An hour later as I sat sipping my first gin and tonic of the trip, strobe lights came to life, techno music blared full volume and a sexy bartender hopped up on top of the bar and danced. I understood immediately that Las Vegas was my kind of town.
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| It's been awhile, but my penis is in this title, and this post is uninteresting |
[28 Feb 2008|01:03am] |
Oh, I didn't see you there. I didn't see you there because I havent been around here for awhile. Get off my nuts, I've had a lot of nothing going on.
How much nothing? well, let me clever segue
It finally happened
I wanted to live my entire life without getting bitten by a Black Widow. I figured since there was snow, I had made it. No fuckin spiders in here. Since I'm writing about this, you know what happened. I didnt realize it till maybe a day and a half later. I figured maybe my toe was swollen and painful because I stubbed it. Then my joints started to hurt and I felt terrible. Then I found a dead black widow in my bed near the foot area. A day later I put it all together.
I wish I had gone to the doctor, that really didn't feel good.
Hyperdookie
Hyperdookie is a term I put together out fo words nobody else has ever used becuase I needed it. After sitting on the toilet for an hour, spewing more painful diarrhea than I thought was humanly possible, I knew that the term "diarrhea" just wasn't sufficient to describe my predicament. I had time so I tossed around a few ideas before settling on hyperdookie:
ultra-shit
meta-crap
Crap-al tunnel syndrome
Un-poo-lievable
Osama Bin-Loggin'
anal non-retentive
In the end, Hyperdookie just sounded better. The next time you find yourself on the toilet doubled over in sadness, pale and sweaty from the marathon evacuation, remember - you've got hyperdookie.
My penis turned 21 and it was ok
Oh yeah, I turned 21. It was ok.
Labeled
The professor for my nonfiction workshop keeps telling everyone what a funny writer I am, and I'm getting a little tired of it. There's nothing I hate more than being called funny. I'm not. I'm loud and I don't shut up. There's a difference. I know with the rise of Dane Cook, it doesn't seem like there's a difference, but it's there.
I may add some more tibits tomorrow sometime. right now im too lazy.
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| My Penis Doesn't Like This Entry |
[11 Feb 2008|04:40pm] |
Ok, I'm sorry bro, I was harshing your mellow and that is totally not what a bro should be doing to his bro. I should be helping you bro out during valentines day, not bro-blocking you.
Now that I'm done amusing myself, I'll continue. My last post was a bit of a downer, and Valentines Day should be at least moderately enjoyable, even if you're just getting drunk and yelling at couples on TV.
I highly suggest you do, by the way.
There are obese women at NAU who think I'm attracted to them now because I happen to stare. Just because I stare at you, trying desperately to figure out how the fabric of your shirt can contain you, or how you shop in the XXL section of walmart and still strut around like you're hot stuff doesnt mean I want my penis to get anywhere near you. In fact, if you came near me with intent to get closer to my penis I would gladly lop it off and attach it to a ten foot pole just so when I eventually bleed to death a dickless freak, everyone will know my penis was at least ten feet away from your greasy, butter filled...everything.
And yes, I do believe that all fat people are giant sacks of grease and butter. Ferociously repulsive sacks of grease and butter. With bad personalities.
I wondered briefly why that didn't work with beautiful women before I realized the only reason staring can attract an obese chick is because they probably don't get looked at that much. It's foreign, it's new and it makes them feel like somewhere on their fleshy mass is something worth looking at.
Well, I suppose they get looked but but with looks of pure disgust, maybe amusement. I happen to stare with a look of intense curiosity, the way I imagine scientists do when something really sciencey happens nearby. I guess curiosity is better than disgust, if you think about it.
Anyway, I tried to think of what beautiful women don't get a lot of that could make them interested in me. Attention is out, and so is being ignored because everyone says ignore the hot chick. The modern hot chick has adapted to deal with all of the techniques.
I came up with poking them in the eye. Before you write the idea off as dangerous and retarded, just think. Have you ever poked a beautiful woman in the eye for no reason? you haven't? Oh, so you don't know for sure it won't end up in a hanjob on a speedboat?
That's what I thought.
I did, however, get asked if I was gay by a very disappointed gay man, so I suppose my numbers are up in the gay community. I guess that's something.
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| I want to give my penis as a valentine |
[06 Feb 2008|10:14pm] |
Sorry for the long time between postings. I've been struck with various bacterial, viral and psychosexual afflictions lately and I didn't feel like writing anything other than my will.
None of you are in it, so don't get excited and try to kill me.
Besides, if the adage "what doesnt kill you makes you stronger" holds any water, I can't be killed at this point. I should have the strength of ten men and be able to repel bullets with my dick.
Well, repel MORE bullets with my dick.
But enough about how manly and veiny I am. This post is about women. More specifically, this post is about how angry I am at women right now. I'm no angrier than usual, but it gets real focused this time of year. Valentine's Day has never been kind to me and I'm just a little bitter. Allow me to explain this years problem.
Apparently, I come off as a very safe and gay because all of my friends here at NAU have vaginas. Additionally, I carry around a little sign that asks women to tell me about their relationship problems because it doesnt kill me to have to listen to that while I'm working on my fourth year of singletude.
Everyone seems to have the same problems too. They all complain about their boyfriends not doing enough for them. "He doesn't show me that he really loves me." "He doesnt make an effort to show he cares" &etc. Now, I know this is an actual problem, so when I hear it I dont immediately write the chick's name down on my "to smother to death" list.
However, when I ask the women how much they do to show him they care, they look at me like I just asked for head. "I shouldn't have to" is one answer I got. I tried not to vomit in anger, as a certain terrifying English teacher used to say.
It struck a chord with me, because I have dated these women. I've dated these women who think I should be the one doing all the fucking work. No, fuck you. You give me a reason I should be spending money on this dinner. Give me a reason I should give two shits about how your day was. I can tell you how your day was right now, but I asked you because I know you appreciate it when I ask you.
Let me guess, your day was boring, then you had lunch, then it was really fucking boring but you talked to your girlfriend for three hours about stupid bullshit I dont care about and now you're here and you don't even ask how my day was out of courtesy. I sat there and I listened to you story. I listened to every mind numbing word becuase I do care, but nooo, you dont give a shit how I'm doing and you don't even suck my dick from time to time to make me forget what a bitch you are.
Maybe you never sucked my dick because you didn't want to give away how good you are at it, pegging you isntantly as the whore I always suspected.
------
I got a little carried away, but you get the point. Women, you need to understand that you're not that great.
Don't get me wrong, you're great, but you're no greater than your man. You have to make an effort to show him you care because with those big ass thighs you're lucky anyone's even looking at you. He doesn't mention the obscene amount of makeup you put on to cover up your zits, or how it makes you look like a hideous clown, so how about you realize that he gets a little worn out from time to time.
Maybe he's had a hard day and it's just a little too draining to pretend the discussion you had with your friend amber isn't a clusterfuck of retardation. Maybe he's a little distant these days because he realizes no matter how much he gives you, and how much he opens up, you'll never be a decent enough person to return even a fraction of that. I'm not tlaking about sex. Your pussy isn't good enough to make a guy forget what a bitch you are, and i guarantee that. Maybe it'll shut him up for a national average of five and a half minutes, but the second he fills that condom, he's going to go right back to not caring about you.
I'm ranting at this point, and I'm repeating myself. I'm going to keep repeating myself until women stop thinking they're as great as the bull dyke feminists on Oxygen say they are.
I haven't actually watched that channel, but I can imagine it's about the same as sitting down and watching Rosie Odonnel moan and bitch about the problems she's had to deal with as a rich, tubby lesbian that nobody likes.
I suppose the point is I'm tired of trying. I'm one or two tearful phone calls away from giving up on women altogether. A life of celibacy is preferable to losing sleep trying to figure out how to please some bitch who'll just treat me like snot if I don't get her the perfect gift while she gives me a fucking T Shirt from spencer gifts.
I want those earrings back.
(NOTE: Just spending time with you isn't a good enough gift. We just say that because we don't want you to know how disappointed we are in you)
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| In which my penis is mentioned only briefly |
[24 Jan 2008|08:58pm] |
In a few seconds, the title of this entry will take on several meanings.
Recently I decided it was time to upgrade to boxer-briefs. Finally my junk has the support it needs AND the freedom it craves.
Get it? Briefly? Fuck you, it's hilarious.
Anyway, I apologize for waiting so long between posts, but the last post was so meaty I wanted to give everyone time to digest it properly. I'm really hungry.
Actually, I haven't been updating as regularly because, yet again, I have been ravaged by a rare illness from somewhere deep in the Amazon. I have been afflicted with various strange diseases for about three months straight now. A day or two after I finally recover from a rare, unclassified set of terrible symptoms, I fall straight into another set.
This time, I can't stop coughing and I have a horrible fever that wakes me up at 3 am so I can pace around my kitchenette/bathroom area waiting to die, only to eventually fall asleep in my computer chair after rocking back and forth mumbling in strange dialects. Oh, also, I am truly impressed by my body's ability to generate mucus. I'm pretty sure if I refused to blow my nose for five minutes, the immense buildup of horrible snot would eventually ooze out of my tear ducts.
Because rolls of toilet paper are plentiful in the front office, I have been using them as tissues for now. As of right now, I have completely used up 4, count 'em, 4 rolls of toilet paper, taking only 2 squares at a time.
Someone, please kill me
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| My Penis and Me: A Memoir |
[11 Jan 2008|11:52pm] |
If you've ever wondered what I will title the book I write about my life in 50 years, wonder no more.
I haven't written in months, thus the daily schedule and regrettable lack of quality. Enjoy some list and non-list related ideas for entries I have had in the past. They're all labeled so feel free to skip over sections that don't sound appealing.
People make me angry
I get angry when people speak. I've already mentioned my disgust in relation to "eck cetera" but, as I'm sure you've guessed, many more things anger me.
I get angry when people say "expecially." What the fuck is expecially. You're an asshole, that's what I think expecially is.
I get angry when people say "Nucular." I mean, really? nucular? That's the closest you can come to nuclear? You're an asshole too.
I get angry when people say "an historic event." I know that's correct, shut the fuck up. Doesnt mean I can't hate it.
Actually, it might be easier to list the things you can say that won't anger me.
1) "Jim, your penis is so amazing and impressive that I want to cast it in bronze and set it on my bedside table so I wake up to something beautiful every morning."
2) "Jim, I'm so awed by your full, lustrous beard that I want to take a picture of you and paste your face over all of my relatives in my wedding photo."
3) "Last week I saw a giant-ass grizzly bear burst out of the woods next to the general store. It mauled a small child to death and then ran away. Afterwards I got a Ring Pop for you. On that note, here's that Ring Pop."
Everybody likes Ring Pops. It's like a normal lollipop except a couple of them can double as a set of crude, playground brass knuckles. Shane Bosely's gonna regret hitting me with that handball after he tastes my pain. And my Ring Pops.
Iporn
I thought about putting porn on my Ipod, but I really thought about my desire for porn. I had to ask myself some questions to figure out whether Iporn was a good idea or not.
When you're walking to class, how desperate, on a scale of 1-10, are you to see some titties?
Is porn the kind of thing that you could watch whilst in a public place and then safely stand up and move if need be?
Can you casually watch porn?
How sad and lonely are you that you actually have to weight the pros and cons of portable porn?
(Note: How much do you want to punch people who make the progress/congress joke? Me too.)
Tending the Garden
Shaving your pubes is a really strange practice. Here I've spent my entire life keeping my balls safe yet I will willingly place a stick holding three razor blades right on down there. I have to admit, though, the end product is magnificent. Imagine my legs and groin create an archway or doorway. Before shaving, my shaft and balls are like a birds nest. You understand the purpose but in the end it's a structure built by an architect that has a brain the size of a pea.
Afterwards, my junk is a tasteful festoon over a neo-classical doorway.
Go and Google festoon, I'll wait.
(Note: No you didn't need to know that much about my nuts but God help me if I'm going to take care of things down there, I want the world to know)
Fat People. Again
I wonder if two fat people having sex have ever passed out mid-coitus. I imagine their enlarged hearts have trouble with that much work. I also wonder if those fat people then died because they both have sleep apnea.
If you walked in on the two fat, dead people laying in a position that implied to you that they fell asleep and then died during sex, what would be the most disturbing part for you?
If it wasn't that two people just died in a location that you could easily walk into, would you admit it?
Buttsex
I don't see the appeal of anal sex. If there's a cleaner, easier and more lubricated hole right there, why take the less inviting one? Not to mention, the other hole never spews out oily diarrhea. Any hole that spews oily diarrhea at any point in time is dead to me.
I like to touch my penis from time to time, and I just don't think I could touch it again after it's been in an ass.
Imagine you lost your Ipod, and you looked everywhere for it and then your girlfriend says "Oh, it was in my ass earlier, but its ok I washed it off." Would you ever really be able to use that Ipod again?
You can wash it all you want, it's still been inside an ass, you're going to feel unclean every time you use it.
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| In which I might not mention my penis |
[10 Jan 2008|09:21pm] |
There were times in my life when I hated myself. It wasn't because I didn't like the way I looked or anything like that. I hated myself because I was being all emo and such. I believe the proper term is being a "Cryclops."
I ate waaahmburgers with frencries.
I had salads heaped high with QQcumbers &etc, etc.
(Quick note before I go on. See that? Etc. Et Cetera. Not "eck cetera" or whatever you idiots keep saying. You make me sick. Anyway.)
The point is, I was being a non-man on a regular basis. Strong men also cry - Jeffrey Lebowski teaches us this - but they don't cry often. They cry when their brave companion who is also a dog dies in some heroic way. They cry when a bone is shattered in a gruesome and bloody manner.
They cry when their wife of 49 years is shot through the heart by a dart flung form a crude atlatl the night before their 50th anniversary. Then, they raise their wrinkled hands angrily to the sky and wail mightily. "WHYYYY. WHYYYYYYY" they yell over and over until, voices hoarse and wrinkled fists tired from all of the raising, they slowly turn to look at the camera. "Robins." They say furiously because Percy Robins was the one who killed Marie. They know this because the dart lodged in her chest has a shaft on it hewn from supple Yew, and they know that Percy Robins recently felled a nice, supple looking Yew tree that was growing in the park.
Weeks later Percy Robins' body is found flaoting in the local reservoir. The police are baffled to discover that there is apparently no cause of death. Then a smart looking guy with glasses walks into the room, removes his glasses importantly and says "It was hate. He was hated...to death."
In the end, it turns out he was right. It was hate.
What I'm trying to say is I hated myself into action. A few months ago I signed The Man bill. On New Years, that bill became The Man Law. Essentially, I am now bound by law to man up when trouble comes my way.
That's it. You trudged through that horrible story and your only reward is to learn that I've decided to stop being a little bitch.
Don't like it? Too bad. Man up. (oh I see what he did there. That's what you're saying)
My penis is great
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| I don't proofread, but I also don't care |
[08 Jan 2008|10:52pm] |
It occurs to me that I haven't yet said why the most recent new year's celebration sucked for me, and most of you weren't up in Big Bear so you couldn't really figure it out for yourselves. Allow me to elaborate.
I fucking hate Phil Mcmahon. Let's just get that out there. It's nothing personal, he's a great guy, but he can go fuck a goat.
Phil Mcmahon is the kin od guy who does things that can't be done and he does them for no reason other than the fact that they can't be done. The only word to describe Phil properly is Ubermensch. He really is the fucking Ubermensch. That being said, it stands to reason that all things Phil related are "uber" in their own ways.
I mention this because Phil - That Fucking Asshole Phil - gave me the most potent sinus infection I have ever experienced, and he gave it to me right before I was to leave for Big Bear.
Up in Big Bear I would be staying in a cabin fit for a king with approximately 22 other people from the 29th of December to New Year's day. During those short, magical days there would be binge drinking, shouting, hot tubs filled with more men than even a gay man might feel comfortable with and the possibility of someone hurting themselves for everyone elses enjoyment.
Last year, I was that person who hurt himself. If you're too lazy to look back a bit in the posts to find out how I did it, and you happen to be unfamiliar to me, I'll summarize: I drank an awful lot of severl kinds of alcohol, blacked out 30 minutes after I started drinking, demanded lapdances from a girl I would later drunkenly propose to and proceeded to lay waste to a bathroom for the better part of the evening. It took me a week to full recover from that short 30 minute alcohol overload.
This year I was determined not to be that person ever again. Partly because I didn't want to deal with the week long hangover, partly because the girl i proposed to wouldnt be there and I would have nobody to propose to on New Year's Eve. I digress.
My plans to drink in moderation the first two night and then in less moderation during New Years were thwarted by That Fucking Asshole Phill Mcmahon and his ridiculous disease.
On the second night, I was caught off guard by the absolute worst post-nasal drip I've ever experienced. One moment I swallowed and felt nothing. The next, it felt like there was something terrible just chilling in the back of my throat. There was. In fact, I'm going to call the illness that showed its gruesome face that night "Stronger Than AIDS Even If AIDS Was Combined With Bullets And Then Shot At Your Face, So Even If You Survived The Bullet, You Still Got AIDS." or STAEIAWCWBATSAYFSEIYSTBYSGA For humorously-not short.
On New Year's Eve day, I felt shitty but still well enough to drink. I could deal with a little post nasal drip with a healthy dose of Captain Mo'. After all, I didn't see anyone in the Captain Morgan comemrcial with post nasal drip, so it stands to reason that if you have the captain in you, you don't have post nasal drip. It's science.
New Year's Eve night I realized I was not ok. I was not ok at all. I had a fever and if I wasn't sitting right in front of the heater and, in turn, burning my back, i was shivering uncontrollably. I had a terrible headache and it hurt to swallow, breathe and blink. I Waited for everyone to clear out of the room I had my sleeping bag in then i crashed around 8 o'clock and spent the next 5 hours rolling around sweating in a room that was far too hot. I got up around 11 to turn the heater off and I was so dizzy from the heat and the illness that I almost faceplanted right into the grate.
Finally when i turned the heater off and the room got back down to a reasonable temperature I realized I wasnt sweating because the room was too hot, I was sweating because whatever illness I had was trying to force as much liquid out of me as possible in hopes of turning me into some kind of beef jerky by morning (In case you're wondering, I am not currently beef jerky).
The story behind this year's failed Big Bear celebration isn't nearly as interesting and full of diarrhea as last year's, but I think this one sucked even more. Took me a week and a half to beat STAEIAWCWBATSAYFSEIYSTBYSGA. During that week and a half, I lost my voice, kept the fever for a few more days, coughed up several buckets of phlegm, drained two gallons of a disturbing yellow liquid out of my sinuses (I dont think mucus is supposed to have the consistency of water but the color of egg yolk so I really don't want to know what it was) and had trouble swallowing macaroni and cheese.
Fuck Phil Mcmahon
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| No really, my penis is as big as the Moon. |
[08 Jan 2008|01:08am] |
I'm not saying the title is based on fact, but consider this: When there's a solar eclipse, are you sure what' you're seeing is really the Moon passing between you and the Sun, or is it just my penis...passing between you and the Sun?
It's something to think about.
Maybe you've noticed that in these two recent posts that my penis has been mentioned a little bit too much. I had an original plan to mention my penis at least once in every post for a full year until finally my penis was such a large part of your everyday reading that the eventual omission of such discussion would leave you alone and confused, hungering for Jim's Penis updates.
"Ok so you don't like fat people and someone did something stupid today - WHAT ABOUT YOUR PENIS?"
It would be just like that only you'd be in a computer lab and everyone would look at you strangely for a few seconds after you were done shouting. Then they would understand the context and chime in with inquisitive looks on their faces "Oh man, he still hasn't talked about his penis? It's been THREE DAYS."
Then you would realize how far reaching my fanbase is and you might take a moment to be a little impressed.
Anyway, that was my original plan. When i really sat down and thought about what it would mean to mention my penis that often, I realized what a monumental task it was. Then I realized I just used the word monumental in reference to something related to my penis and I laughed. THEN I realized I was sitting down and thinking about writing a years worth of posts about my penis and I was also laughing at my own giant penis jokes and I felt a little ashamed.
That was a good story.
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| ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED? |
[04 Jan 2008|04:44pm] |
BEHOLD - I crawl back to livejournal with my wallet between my legs.
See, the funny thing about your own site is that things like that cost money. I don't really feel like spending my not so hard earned money on websites and things of that nature (internet porn)
I decided to come back for many reasons. First on my list of reasons was because about a month after I said I was done with this livejournal, I realized I just can't do that. I really can't walk away from this shining golden testament to how enormous and veiny my penis is.
Second, Joel mentioned he missed reading things, and I'll do anything for Joel in the hopes that some day he'll understand and accept my love. J+J 4ever, buddy.
Third on that list was because I love myself. I do. I'm fucking great. (Note: I'm not actually doing any fucking but thats ok. If you read that sentence and thought about me and the great fucking I was taking part in, that's enough for me. It's not really about the sexual prowess, it's about the illusion of sexual prowess.)
There's baggage that comes with being great, though, and I have to carry that baggage around. My emotional arms are getting tired, and I feel like I'm coming home to this livejournal where I can finally set down all of the baggage and unload it all.
You didn't think I could go as long as I did with the whole baggage thing, but I did. It's called dedication.
Just wanted to let anyone who cared that I was gone know that I'll be writing here from time to time, blessing each and every one of you with my uncontrollable majesty. I don't mean to brag, but God himself is jealous of my greatness.
Also, Big Bear sucked for me again this year. What are the odds?
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| It's about time |
[20 Aug 2007|01:49pm] |
Many years ago I started blogging. I remember being a minor contributor (Read: extremely minor contributor. 1 story and two flash animations) to Puuba.com, run by one of Max's friends. That guy eventually moved on to his Diaryland blog which, for whatever reason, I kept reading.
Enamored with the idea of having a hip, trendy forum for my personal thoughts, I started a Diaryland account. Though everything I posted was poorly written and smacked of the early stages of teen angst, I'll miss that account the most. I actually knew how to use the internet then and I had a really awesome loking layout going. I'll never get something to look that professional again.
Regardless, after reading various local friends' blogs on the more upscale looking/sounding (and now defunct) "Ujournal," I shut down my Diaryland account and started again. After a year full of my offensive and immature posting and various arguments with anonymous posters, I noticed some of the old Ujournal friends were moving on to Livejournal. At the time, Livejournal wasn't free to everyone and that meant it was a lot cooler. You either had to get invited or pay 5 bucks to get a code.
I decided to pay and thus, 4-5 years ago, this Livejournal began. All of the first two years of posts are lost, but I remember a few of them. Suffice it to say they weren't pretty. This livejournal was host to at least one story from every single relationship i've had up to this point. Looking back over what's in the archives, I've watched my narrative style stay more or less the same. However, I noticed a satisfying increase in the vocabulary and complexity of the syntax as time wore on.
And now I believe it's time to move on yet again. In the next couple of weeks, depending on how money related things work out, I'll be launching my own website. That is to say, I'll be launching my own blog plus advertisements. Soon you'll have to go to a legitimate .com to read my boring, rambling entries.
So I suppose this is it. Farewell, livejournal.
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| Apologies to Radlass |
[15 Aug 2007|07:02pm] |
She suggested a blog prompt, but after serious deliberation, I couldn't think of anything to write about using that prompt. I've failed her.
However, the pall that hung over my dinner was lifted when I realized that tomorrow, as I understand it, Superbad comes to theaters. YOU LIED TO ME, BLAKE
If you're reading this, you probably know me pretty well. You're most likely a friend of mine in the real world and you've read this journal for a couple years as well as talked to me in person and gotten lost in my eyes. There's a slightly smaller chance that you've never met me in person but you stumbled across this journal one day and became strangely attracted to my self loathing, so you went elsewhere on the internet to find a picture of me. Then you got lost in my eyes. It happens.
Regardless, if you read this you've probably had to skip over an entry or two where I describe, in great detail, the size and strength of the boners I have popped for various movies/games/confusing dreams about my cousin.
I want very badly to make this another entry about one of those things. Superbad promises to be the big screen comedy equivalent of that time I watched a little kid slip and fall into a puddle of diarrhea on the sidewalk.*
Then I decided it would be kind of funny if instead I decided to post a review of an exotic flavor of jam complete with recommendations for types of toast and toasting techniques in order to truly get the most out of that jam. I realized, halfway into a beautifully composed description of a delightfully tart Rosella jam, that I was the only one who would think it funny. Most of you would read it and silently judge me.
Instead of the plethora of "a little too far out there" ideas I came up with, I decided instead to leave you with a comic compliments of The Perry Bible Fellowship
*A lucky few of you might actually remember that entry. It might have even been on my old Ujournal. Either way, it's exactly how it sounds. I watched a small child round a corner and slip - head first mind you - into a puddle of diarrhea that was, for whatever reason, chilling in the middle of the sidewalk.
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| I apologize to those whom I disappoint |
[10 Aug 2007|12:12am] |
| [ |
music |
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The White Stripes - Icky Thump |
] |
I've often mentioned that I crave excitement. That is a lie.
The more I thought about it, I'm much happier when things are quiet and calm. I enjoy lovely conversations around fire pits, or shared glasses of wine amongst friends. It is delicious to me to enjoy the company of others at a reasonable volume.
See, I'm not a very exciting person. I can't/won't dance, I don't enjoy places crowded with people I don't know (Come to think of it, I don't enjoy crowded places of any kind.) and I'm none too fond of things that require moderately fast reaction times.
I've made reference to this before by saying that I'm the "worst teenager/college student ever." I have to be the worst college student as I have since moved out of the teenager league - a league in which I failed miserably at debauchery and hijinx and excelled in being a goody two-shoes.
Being averse to large, energetic parties (it is to be noted that any gathering above 6 people is large in my eyes) I don't do well at all in the college scene. I don't too often meet people who, when the word party is mentioned, don't respond with an overly jubilant declaration of joyous intent.
I am speaking, obviously, about "PAAAAAAAARTYYYY WOOOOOOOO."
Of course, people don't actually compulsively shout when I talk to them (Note: partially because I don't talk to people). However, in my mind, that's how it really should be. I could decide quickly who to actively ignore.
I'm just not the kind of person who enjoys a lot of things happening at once, especially loud things. I enjoy it when everyone's attention is centered on one conversation that involves a lot of people. That kind of shit brings out the best stories I've had the pleasure of hearing.
I suppose if you want to label me, I'm an expert wallflower, and I'm happy that way. If I have to be at a party, i rather enjoy sitting on the sidelines and observing everyone else having a good time. It actually makes me feel good to see people feeling good, despite my black, uncaring heart.
I'm often scolded for such behaviors but I don't see them changing any time soon.
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| Hobo #612: Chuck McKindred: Not So Holy, But Very Moley |
[03 Aug 2007|12:09pm] |
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music |
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Muse - Take A Bow |
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After much conversation with Radlass I started to look back through various entries I've written since 2003.
I promised myself a few years ago that I would never look back at things I'd done in the past because it would just make me angry/sad. However, amidst the various angsty entries and cryptic, passive agressive jabs at various people I had encountered earlier that day, there were some surprisingly wise gems.
Radlass brought this to my attention: "Somethings you just don't want to know. Not necessarily bad things, just things that make you stop for a second, and question where in God's name something like that came from. More often than not, if you find the answer, it has its origins in some sort of female mind."
I guess even mildly retarded juniors in high school can have moments of lucidity.
However, the majority of the entries posted around that time slipped back into strange online tongues, using such blasphemous spellings as "u" and "sux." For that, I apologize.
I don't feel like apologizing for all of the terrible things I said back then, however. That's who I was and I suppose I have to come to terms with that. I said terrible, insensitive and ignorant things. I think they call people like that "teenagers" these days, but I'm not sure.
I call them assholes. I think the two are synonymous at this point.
Looking back at how foolish I once was actually makes me a little proud. Somehow I crawled out of the black, viscous ooze of angst and emerged a moderately well-adjusted human being, capable of rational thought and, dare I say it, compassion.
I'm still insecure in the most unhealthy of ways, but I feel like acceptance is a step in the right direction. I don't think I even need to expand on that subject, but some of you may be unaware of the extent of my insecurity.
Of course, I'm joking. If you've read my journal at all you know exactly how insecure I am. Maybe by the time I'm 30 I'll have it all figured out.
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