Everytime I Look At The Damn Clock It's 12:34

If there's one thing I've noticed in my time here on Earth, it is that everyone is an asshole. That's right, even you.

But the interesting thing about this little observation is the different derivations of asshole there are out there. There's a whole intricate layer system of asshole, ranging from the hardly noticable to the all-encompassing. Everyone is an asshole in their own way, some more so than others, some in bizarre ways, some in ways so subtle you won't even recognize until you're in you tub a month later and you say to yourself "Hey, that guy who was in line ahead of me at the grocery store when I was buying toilet paper? That guy was an asshole!". Some people don't mean it. Some people most definitely do. Some people don't recognize it in themselves, others do and either try to fix it, use it to their advantage, or stone cold do nothing.

Few things bother quite like somebody not responding to me when I ask them something. Something as simple as if they know what time it is, if I get no sort of response, I'll get pissed. And this is some stupid little shit that is actually my fault anyway: No one can hear a god damned word I say. I speak like a friggin' doormouse playing the lead role in a British drug drama. So though I speak quiet as fuck, I get pissed when people don't hear me because I immedietly register it as a dick move. So they're suddenly an asshole, completely unbeknownst to them.

Often I'll sit and think to myself "My god, what [insert name of asshole here] said was such an asshole thing to say!" and simply ponder, alone on my stone in the middle of the gently rifting river, with lilypads all about and the infintesimal sound of the breeze blowing through my ears and the cottontails which adorn my pondering spot, about what a fucking asshole that asshole was. Asshole. Was this malicious? That would be a major asshole move if so. If not, what made them not realize what they were doing pertained qualities of being an asshole? Did they recognize and just not want to deal with it? What the fuck?

Then I all come off like an asshole overanalyzing these things, coming up to suckahs two years later and being all "Hey, you could've answered that phone, dipstick, you were at a closer proximity!", all measuring angles and pulling out graphs and spreadsheets with mathematical proof of their being of an asshole. "X + Y = you's a dick, ho". But I always overthink peoples assholeisms, which is probably why I've come to the dire conclusion that everyone is an asshole. Maybe it's not true. Maybe there are nice people out there. Then why the fuck don't any of them hang out with me?

Lots of people freely admit that they're assholes, as though it's some sort of special badge they get to wear and show off to everyone. "See? I'm an asshole. Don't this off of my words and actions, I'm going to tell you directly so there's no room for confusion." I hate people who freely admit they're an asshole in order to use admission as an excuse to continue. If you know you're an asshole, that doesn't give you the right to be one. In fact, it's worse off than if you didn't know, because since you do know, you ought to do something to change it. Ya ass.

But people like assholes, all in all. People like that big loud guy that's always sayin' stuff, or the charismatic douchebag who looks attractive in high-powered suits or Bright Eyes T-shirts. But wait a minute! People don't like all assholes, people only like attractive assholes. Here's the key: If you're good-looking, being an asshole is being assertive, confident, badass. Being badass without being attractive is just being an ass. Nobody likes assholes, they're just seen in a different light if they're attractive.

But everybody's an asshole. So end of story. People go about it different ways, some are better liked than others, some play it up better, and some are just straight up dicks.

Or maybe I'm just pissy. Maybe I'm the asshole.

Maybe I'm wrong about everything and am just kind of ranting about nothing in particular.

Maybe.

We Built This City On Smooth Jazz And Sand

I have an emotional predisposition against the Showbiz Show with David Spade. The show is a series of crappy superficial celebrity jokes, or basically Jay Leno's monologue extended to half an hour. So you want to be the Daily Show, we can tell. But your celebrity jokes aren't going over for one very distinct reason:

"Britney and husband are trying to come up with a name for their newbor baby... They were going to name it after where it was conceived, but Olive Garden bathroom floor was too hard to say."

Yeah, but you're David Spade.

"Paris Hilton is apparantly having trouble remembering her lines on the set of her new movie. Producers say they're looking for someone to fuck her brains back in."

Yeah, but YOU'RE DAVID SPADE.

"Gwyneth Paltrow blah blah blah blah blah"

Yeah, but YOU'RE DAVID SPADE.

No celebrity joke works, because you are David Spade, saddest and lowest of all celebrities. Crawl back into your hole and do whiney voiceovers for credit card companies, you pest.

And as long as we're on the subject, fuck Carlos Mencia. This guy is supposed to replace Dave Chappelle? The guy whose jokes consist literally of just stating a laundry list of stereotypes? That's not a joke, you dumbass. Stepping on stage, saying Mexicans are lazy, then showing a video montage of you saying that Mexicans are lazy is not a joke. The only proof that Mexicans are lazy is your lazy writing, you fool.

Hell, while we're at it, Robot Chicken fucking sucks. I myself am exceedingly tired of Family Guy and its antics, but take away any cleverness Family Guy may still be clinging to and you've got Robot Chicken. An entire show based around the concept of people getting hit in the nads belongs on MTV eight years ago, jerks. And what the fuck are you doing on Cartoon Network? I remember when they used to have animated programs on that station, rather than thrown together flash movies of cardboard figures. Remember a thing called "budget"? It always seemed odd to me that the more popular Adult Swim got, the crappier quality its shows got. Last time I heard it was supposed to go the other way. I say the IRS look into this for laundering.

Ok.

Urine Real Trouble Now

Pee! Pee, pee, pee! Everywhere, pee! Urine dripping, oozing from the pores of my cieling down onto the floor and my person! Enter the bathroom, lo and behold, foul-smelling yellowish liquid dripping from the cracks in the cieling, rubbishing up the floor and filling up the light fixture. This, of course, is exactly what I needed. I was sitting around, clacking away at the ol' keyboard when all of a sudden it hit me: I would love pinky drinky to dribble from the heavens onto my hair and clothes right now! The urge was so strong, but I had no source of cieling pee available. Damn! But thankfully someone up there likes me, and gave me a wonderful geyser of wee-wee juice upon discovery of the sploosh in my bathroom.

I am of course being sarcastic and was actually not a big fan of the spray of fluids all over me as I desperately cleaned up the bathroom. The floors were soaked, the cieling light was filled to the brim with this piss, and the bookshelf was being dribbled on, soaking all my books. Beautiful. Granted, it turned out it was not pee, necessarily. The people upstairs left the sink on and decided to leave the apartment. Nice job, guys. The water soaked down through the floor and into my apartment, likely soaking the wood to retain the color. So though it may not have been pee, it might as well have been. It had all the attributes, and frankly, if someone shoves their dick in my face and sprays regular water on me, I'll be just as disgusted as if it'd been urine.

I think I can officially scratch golden showers off my list. I sure as hell didn't enjoy this ordeal.

Ick.

Spring Forth Like A Cactus

So I gotsta hella type some shit about my own self for my creative writing class an' I'm all thinking "Cake, bro, it'll be like I'm typing in my blog!" All assignments since the creation of this damn blog have been related to this damn blog in the sense of how much work I'm going to have to put into it. Cuz I don't put any god damn work into this blog. None. I merely type. That is all. But that's basically what I give for my actual assignments too. Nerfin'. Nerfin' atol. So I'm all thinking I could simply write like a blog type entry and spruce it up textual style like so that it looks all spiff, print the sucka and ride it all the way to Grape Apple Town, but then I'm all "Wait a tic... I can't even think of anything to type into my blog no more... I got hell big kinds of writers block and stuff!"

So basically here I am with a double set of writers block, along with a desire to not do anything. Though the desire is really to do something, anything, but the overpowering need to sit and to waste away eventually takes me over and I find myself back with no inspiration and no shit to pontificate on.

Laziness is a drug. Actually, laziness is the drug. There is nothing else but laziness, the overwhelming desire to just coast, to have shit come to you without any real effort. Real drugs? Doesn't exist. Manifestation of the desire to have pleasure and good times come easily through a little pill is all. Laziness is the most addictive drug of them all, because it's next to impossible not to not do shit. Follow me here. Two negatives there. Comes to a positive. This ain't my damn English paper, I can do that shit if I want. Why do I spend my time writing this instead of, I dunno, anything else on this Earth? Laziness. It's something to do without putting any real form of effort into it. And TV. And video games. They themselves are not the culprit folks, it is YOU and your weakness. By you, I mean the everyman, and by the everyman, I mean me. I'm talking to myself here, you can go ahead and read on if you desire but I can't guarantee it'll pertain to you. If it does, sweet, connection to others/universality of concepts therein. Or perhaps you and I are the only ones who get sucked into the abyss. Then you suck.

I don't know what to write my paper about, because I don't even really know what I'm writing right now (and I totally almost wrote "writing write now" and debated with myself whether it was worth it to back and change it). Did anything worthy of telling happen in my life?

Yes.

But what.

I can't think. My mind is clouded.

It's not even due tomorrow, why the fuck am I even thinking about starting it?

Fucking laziness is what keeps people from achieving, and often even having, goals. I'm wasting the best years of my life, and will look back on this time when I'm 70 and think to myself "What the HELL happened? Why didn't I do anything? How come I have nothing to show for myself?" Then I'll get caught up in the wish that I had done something when I was younger and not get up and do anything then. Cuz Matlock 3000 will be on, and damned if I'm gonna miss Andy Griffith the 6th hand out his own special brand of street justice.

I don't have any homework to do, really. I wish I did. At the very least, I'd have something to kick my ass when I didn't do anything. Laziness is often a drug with few consequences, at least immedietly visible ones.

I hate it.

Remember, Diction Is Not Spelled D-I-C-K-S-H-I-T

Bullet! Anti-semitism is back in style! After taking a brief dip after World War II, everyones favorite form of hatred has come back! Now, not only held by hillbillies, neo-nazis and Catholics, everyone with a television and a mind prone to conspiracy theory can claim to hate Jews!

Bullet! I am learning things, in school! Knowledge creeps through me like something! I am taking a creative writing course, likely spurned by my inflated sense of affinity for writing thanks largely to the positive yet obviously bald-faced praise recieved through this blog, where I will to write, creatively! That which is creative shall flow me, like something! Else! And, psychology! There are many attractive women in my psychology class; I wonder what Freud would have to say about this! Other than the word "penis" and perhaps some heavy brow-furrowing! Furrow! Also! Astronomy, where I get to learn all about Sagittarius and Cancer! (Not bald depressed eight year old kid cancer, but like, the other kind!) People hate it when I say "Piss-kiss" instead of Pisces, but that doesn't mean I'll stop! Unless I learn otherwise, which who knows, there is much in the way of learning time ahead of me! Forage on! Also, I'm taking another class, too! But I think it is silly! So!

Bullet! I once again am going through the classic school predicament of not having homework to do, but not sure if it's because I actually don't have any or if I just wasn't paying any attention when the homework was assigned. I guess, as always, we'll find out once I walk into class and get told to turn in my paper on how the film "March Of The Penguins" with Morgan Freeman made me feel and how I could relate it somehow to the topic of multiculturalism. I will then proceed to write "pENginS" on a fuschia post-it note with a small picture of a circle with eyes in a tuxedo. But I'll forget to write my name and will recieve a zero, cuz it was really all just an attendance exercize. And shit. I mean, And Shit!

Bullet! Referring to issues with Capitalized Bullets followed by exclamation points is simple and fun! And it makes me feel enthused without actually having to act it! Hooah!

Bullet! I totally had another one but I forgot what it was!

Bullet! Screw you, Carlos Mencia! Fuck you!

Bullet! As in faster than! A! (Speeding!)

Bullet!

If God Meant Us To Fly, Then... Uh...

I've always loved the concept of regulars. You know, the guy you always see at a restaurant or something, or the guy who does all his shopping at one gas station. I got to meet many regulars working at a gas station; it was interesting to talk with people who I didn't know at all as though we were friends, despite the fact that we would never see each other outside of the context of the store. I was once considered a regular at the Perkins back home. I actually got asked if I wanted the usual. Oh, what a glorious day that was. Sigh. Shoot me now, grave-man, for I can die having accomplished my one single goal on this Earth and the next.

You always need a signal that you are a regular in order to be one. You can't simply declare yourself one, your will must be proven. The classic line "He's in here all the time" is good proof. Today I officially became a regular at this joint known as Brankos, a delicious little family owned and operated sandwich place off Fullerton. I went in, not realizing I had not enough money (the ever present "I totally thought that was a five, dawg, aw shit so many conflicting feelings" running through my head), and stumbled with words briefly. The kind woman at the counter said to give her what I had and I could pay the rest later. "I know you," she stated with a kind heart and gentle smile. "I can't let you go hungry." Awwwwwwwwwwwwww. How damned sweet is that? Very Ma and Pa restaurant-esque. People before pennies. The kind of place that ever-so-briefly restores my faith in humanity.

And DAMN!!! was that a good hot dog! I hadn't had a Chicago hot dog for 3 months, and didn't get around to getting one yet on account of my favorite local dog joint closed over the summer. I was very sad, but this experience was henceforth brightened by the delightful and delicious circumstances revolving the hot dog I ate tonight. Man, that was a good hot dog. I love Chicago hot dogs. Worth moving down here simply for that.

Hey, one last thought: If you've ever spoken with me, you've probably heard this one, but don't stop me, cuz I love telling it and you are out of line trying to get me to not say something anyway, you horrible jackass of a person: In the Ford Truck song, you know "I'm a Ford Truck man" and all that bullshit, the asshole no-talent sheep-fucker sings that Ford trucks are "all [he] drives", yet immedietly afterwards states that he "ain't got no [sic] boundaries" and that, in addition, he "don't compromise". If you ain't got no boundaries, douche, how come all you'll ever drive is a Ford? That sounds like a fucking boundary to me. You are bound to Ford, my friend. Bound! Repent thyself!

On top of that, in the "extended mix" of the diddy, thankfully reserved solely for the radio commercials, our hero continues by singing he'd "rather walk 10 miles in the snow [than] drive any other pick-up truck". Are you serious, sir? I don't believe you. No way in hell would you, if presented with either having to walk ten miles in the snow, thus scuffing up your Gucci cowboy boots and potentially scratching your Ford-emblazened acoustic guitar, or getting to ride in the competitors automobile (horror of horrors!!!), choose the former. Let's see video proof of this, lest I be disinclined to believe your faulty story.

Oh, and George Bush doesn't care about black people, in case you hadn't heard.

The Asterix Signifies A Typographical Error

Having a lack of motivation was once benefited these posts. I was once able to sit down and write 1000 words on the dump I took the night before because I had nothing better to do other than perhaps take another dump for more inspiration. I'll say this: my dumps no longer thrill me. Nothing thrills me. I swell with boredom, and god damn if my inability to actually get up and fucking do something about it, or do something period, hasn't proven to be my downfall. There is entertainment here in the apartment: Video games! Television! Pool table! Masturbation! Couches! Soda! Internet! Music! Walking from one area to another! Trashy magazines owned by my roommate! Exposed brick! Looking with hope into the fridge! And yet each of these things are painfully fleeting; I can spend about 10 minutes on each before I get bored with it and need to move on. I can't really get excited about school yet. I don't even have a major picked out yet, basically I'm coasting along in a kayak of regret with no goal in mind to keep me sane. So nothing has changed really from last year, except that the amount of friends I have here has decreased.

Again, all this used to be that which fed these posts. My unleashed and unshowered contempt for everything around me allowed me to pontificate for days on subjects once thought to have little significance. I had nothing better to do, might as well write words on the internet. But now I have even less to do, and I don't feel up to writing. Chock (however the fuck that's meant to be spelled) it up to taking a 3 month break from doing it, I suppose. I can't get into the groove yet. I have nothing to write about. I'm bored with myself and think everything I could potentially write is dumb. I should be doing something else. Go out. Make friends. See sights. Get exercize. Eat right. Do well in school. Quit wasting your life, someone would be more than willing to take your place, you ingrate. But it's funny how the lack of motivation itself is a catalyst for my lack of motivation. I've predetermined that I have nothing to do, might as well live that prophecy out. I went to buy my book today for my Psychology class, and they didn't have any copies at any of the stores, not even the library. So I gave up. And that's all there is to it. Like a good little sophmore in college, I played Halo. Why? Does killing fake aliens improve my life? Will I be able to look back and say "Man, I'm glad I beat that level that one day... It was so worth it"? People create masterpieces in the time it took me to play that game. Over time, if I were to be doing something creative or productive in the time I spend watching TV, putzing around, or literally doing nothing until my brain reminds me breathing is a necessary function if I decide I want to keep on living, I could be mad kinds of prolific with all sorts of good-timey feelings floating about this tortured middle-class white boy soul of mine. Sigh. Almost makes me want to write an emo ballad, blaming all this on my father. Bastard.

So, again, nothing really has changed between this boredom I'm feeling now and the boredom I've always felt forever. Except that now even this newly discovered outlet of writing bullshit on the internet isn't inspiring me at all. It's so easy; I didn't have to think at all or try very hard. Blogging is specifically designed for the lazy man: You can fucking post from your damned-ass cell phone for Mohammed's sake. And yet even it has become yet another TV show that I watch for 15 minutes and decide it is dumb, a decision that comes 14 minutes too late. I hope there is a swing of things that I can get into at some point, but perhaps like last year it will simply be the swing of accepting that I have nothing to do and having time pass more quickly accordingly. These are usually tireswings, I tire of them easily.

Ouch. Forget I said that.

Essentially, I need something to do. Something to get me up in the morning. Something to make me leave this apartment. Just something. A project. A class I enjoy. A friend.

A girlfriend.

I miss you.

That Goes In There, You Go Up There

In the back room of the gas station sat an R2D2 Pepsi display, a little cooler on wheels in the shape of the classic robot. The top of the head was open for soda cans to be displayed and taken from, and when the cooler filled with water, R2 would pee it out out of a small tube by his feet. I saw this thing in the back room and immedietly knew I had to have it. My friend drove it home in his truck, and it subsequently got moved from house to house as each households parent got pissed about it being there. When finally it was time for it to be at my house, I too was cursed at for having it. I never understood the rage the parents seemed to feel for the lovable little bleeping and blooping robot. Is he not a relic, nay, a legend from their very generation? Our generation gets Jar-Jar, but you guys get R2, the huggable droid who warmed the hearts of many throughout his existance. And now you cast him out of your homes. For shame. For that which you do unto the least of my droids, you do unto me. And shit.

So R2 had to go. He had no home. I had no room to bring him back to Chicago with me, and no one would take him. It was sad, but I had to let the little guy go. We had some good times this summer; granted most of them involved me wheeling him from one house to another, but we did put a keg in him once, so he got to fulfill his calling at least once. Of course, it was 3:30 in the morning on the night before I left Minnesota when I realized I hadn't taken him out of my garage yet. So I decided to simply wheel him down to Aldine Park, set him on the swing, and let him contemplate life as he sat and peered on the heavens.

Goodnight, sweet prince, wherever you are.

Menstruate Is Just Straight Men Backwards

Hey, all, and by "all" I of course mean the one of you who actually decided to keep reading after I took my far too long hiatus. I return. I didn't write this summer, and you know why? Because I didn't fucking feel like it. Well, now I suppose I ought to fucking feel like it again, as it is the beginning of the school year. Classes have technically not started yet, but I am sure I will slip back into tragic life of constant boredom and begin to once again drool my silly musings onto this page for all to gobble. So here goes:

Blogging is dumb. Blogging eludes people into believing they are better writers than they are, and produces a new breed of people who feel they can write but really are simply commanding the half-hearted respect of those who would've been their peers anyway. It's so first draft, so opinionated, and so god damned trendy that I can't fucking abide by it any longer. And yet I will.

People are dumb. To be reuinted with those known as "douche" is to once again realize my tired points of sucky humanity. I hate hating people; it's so depressing and time-consuming. But fucking "Sweet Sixteen" on MTV? Is there any better reason on Earth for the extinction of mankind? I love hearing drunk people philosiphize about the nature of male-female relations. "Man, a girl can walk into any bar and pick up any guy she wants... I swear, I saw it in a beer commercial!" God damn, people, all of your tired "truisims" are derived from Cosmo and Maxim. All guys like sports. All girls are actually lesbians. All guys love having their testicles rubbed with the pointy end of a rock. All girls will have sex with you if you buy them jewelery and tell them they're pretty. I'm fucking sick of it. Every notion the youth of today has about the opposite, or in many cases the same, sex is based on stereotype. Fuck that. None of the girls I hang out with act like the priss-holes who parade around TRL. None of the guys I hang out with sit around watching football and talking about tits. (Ok, not exactly true, but this sentence helps my momentum). I don't like the people who fit these stereotypes, especially because I know full well they fit the stereotypes willingly because that is what they believe they are supposed to be.

Wesley Snipes looked like Macauly Culkin in "Demolition Man". Also, speaking of Wesley Snipes, what the hell were the writers of "White Men Can't Jump" thinking when they wrote the line "See, white people listen to Jimi Hendrix, but they don't hear Jimi Hendrix"? It's the other way around, dipshits! You hear and don't listen is what you mean! God!

Ugh, I need to work my way back up to this. This is all I got for now. See ya later.