Smelly Buckets

So, I guess I'm sick. I have like things that constantly project themselves from my nostrils, they're kind of basically in command now. My typing ability is waning: I almost spelled "kind" with a c. That would've been pretty pathetic, I'm sure all manner of people would jump all over me for that one. My head feels like it has mud in it. My eyes are tired. My arms are sore and I can hardly keep them straight. So, I guess I'm sick.

But I intend not to use this space simply to complain about the various ills that have surfaced in my life recently. No, blogs are in no way intended to be used for petty bitching and empty negativity. No, sir. Nuh-uh. A big bowl of "no" yogurt for that twiddling peon. Though as it stands during the writing of this particular entry, I am not feeling very keen on life, this does not mean that someday, along the line, I will all of a sudden switch sides and clamour for the simple joys of everything that is, was and ever shall be. When those days come, you'd better believe they will be chronicled here on this little cove of intro-netty space, oh yes! I shall rain down from the heavens good cheer, maybe a tiding or two, and mass amounts of self-aggrandizing statements which I may have picked up from other sources. So don't think of this particular entry as me being biased towards the meloncholy. I simply need to express that which is currently troubling my gentle soul so as to prepare myself for better sailing ahead.

FUCK!!!

I'm not feeling so great at all and fuck this. If I could sleep, coiled up in a ball in a blanket made of angel feathers, for all eternity and dream nothing but thoughts of dancing sugarplums and rampant, overwhelming nocturnal emissions, perhaps my days would be brightened, but as far as now goes, only anger, sadness and gross tissues full of mucus fill the hallways of my sullen life. I need to go lie down over there, a place that I am pointing at that you can't see because you are not where I am right now, watching me point with my finger in the direction of the place I need to go. It will not be grand but will at least give me the pleasure of pointing my nostrils in a direction that is not vertical so they have less a chance of sabotaging my entire operation. And maybe TV will be on, so I will watch it. Oh, Bill Cosby, if your manic take on upper-class family values aren't enough to satiate the wild beast inside, I am afraid nothing will, and tears of abundance shall spill from wherever tears decide they want to spill from as my unending determination for bed-ridden lonliness supercedes all else.

How many typos you count? I'm not going to count. Counting is unhealthy. Sorry if none of this made sense, I let my fingers do the talking. The bastards.

I Have Gaffed A Gaffer

I guess a local team won some sort of sports game. Seems to be an increased amount of ruckusing about amongst the people within earshot. Yelling and shirtlessness abound; should I be interested, maybe? Should a lone eybrow be raised slowly and specifically above my left eye as I make some sort of high-toned questioning noise through my teeth? Should maybe I investigate further so that tomorrow, when asked if I saw the game, I can at the very least say "No!" with a sense of prior knowledge? So many purposeless yet distinctly probing questions pass through this mind of mine; I refuse to answer any of them. It would take power away from their asking. Can't have that.

The other day a guy on the other side of the train platform began to yell at us. "WHITE SOX!!!" he yelled. "WHITE SOX!!!" he yelled again. I think maybe he yelled a third time, possibly further. I didn't keep track, my notebook and pen used to write down the number of times someone did something were not on me at the time. His girlfriend yelled like a "WHOO!" or a "WHOOT!" or something (how many zeroes in "wh00t", by the way? I'm not good at math). The guy then shot back with some garbled sentence involving the word "Sex". It's really the only word I can pick out of garbled sentences, maybe that and "marshmallow-riffic", which isn't even a real word in our dictionary, so scratch whatever it was I just mumbled. I think he was saying something along the lines of "We had sex at the stadium!" I certainly hope they did: I always hope people are having entertaining sex lives so I have something to be jealous of. The chant quickly turned into simply "SEX!!!", disregarding any notice to the original baseball team in question. Well, sex is as good as anything else to cheer, I suppose. More valid than "I am incontinent and am a widower!!! WHOOO!!!".

Rain that falls dilligently from the sky on the bare-chested rapscallions what be running back and forth in celebration seems not to distract them from their ultimate goal: Being drunk and yelling about... something. Baseball, I guess. Maybe they won the lottery. Maybe that new Desperate Housewives episode was just really, really good. They're not really saying anything in particular, just yelling. Yelling and running. And running back. Then forth. Jumping. Arms being thrown in the air, I also believe they were relatively apathetic as to this particular action. I didn't watch the game, did they bring back your dead puppy from sixth grade at the end of it? It is the World Series, innit? I suppose they're justified. Local boys made good, everyone loves to see the team with the city they are currently in at the front of their name hit a ball well.

A solid fifteen minutes and cheering dies down. Cars have returned to hitting people in the middle of the street rather than honking in wistful comradarie. Legs got tired. Shirts realized they were way too wet. Refridgerators weeped at the lack of beer inside them. And all went quiet again. To one who didn't watch the game, it might as well have been a bunch of drunks I didn't know, yelling about how great of friends they were with everyone around them and how they can't remember the last time they jumped rope. I could've been asleep, oblivious to any event taking place, tossing sullenly as the assholes woke me from my sub-gentle slumber. Hell, I could've not even heard them and gone on with my life, completely unfettered by whatever it is that may have happened. To me it could've been no more than an empty bottle of Pabst sitting silently on my front porch, riddled with memories of the previous nights sport-inspired debauchery. Somewhere, someone's getting laid. Someone's "really fuggin' drunk, dude". Someone lost their bra and doesn't care. Maybe someone got hit by a bus or fell on third rail. And nothing worthy of mention will happen to me, other than an easily forgettable loudness eminating from outside, registering with me just enough that I will be able to forget it rather than ignore it. Would something happen to me if I were a White Sox fan? Would my life change drastically? For most, I'm sure this is just an excuse to party. But with that excuse comes an acceptance that yes, something will come of this. Your acknoledgement of the games existance and perceived importance will change your life, whether noticably or not. For me, the noise annoys and I go to sleep. I am unfettered, here's hoping you fetter more favorably.

Go Sox.

White Sox! Sex!

It is this time of year again. The cold sets in mid-October after unseasonably warm months preceding it, as if to say "It's Sweeps Week in weather town, mother fucker, we have to surprise you or we lose our jobs. Up next: Is Mother Nature a he-she????". The apartment is full of subtle reminders of my current state of mind: radiators but no heat, fireplace but no fire, blankets but no one to cuddle with. Me, alone in my frigid room wearing a hoodie to bed, struggling under the quicksand quilts to drift into slumber where maybe I'll dream about somewhere where the chill does not creep through the bars on my window. This is the kind of weather that I am able to attribute an excuse to spending my Sunday in my Barrel o' Monkey pajamas watching Law and Order and eating Cheetos, it's too rainy and cold to do anything else. I of course know full well I would've done this very event under any circumstances. But it's nice to be able to tell someone you stayed inside all day and did nothing and have them respond, "Oh, yeah, it was really icky out wasn't it?" I don't have to make the excuse, weather does it for me.

I feel like I ought to be a mole or something, all curled into the smallest amount of space I can take up, burrowed underground and lying amongst my brethren, feeding off their natural warmth.

I have nothing to write. That which circles in my head is interesting to none and impossible and purposeless to attempt to communicate. End transmission.

Drunk POost@!!!!

I am drunk and I'm posting. Girls are amazingly uscetible to douchy dude at a party... it's sad. I try my best but ulimately I respect women too much. WOmen are beaautiul and i LOVE THEM ESPECIIALY EeVARE BUT only her cuz othrer women suck. COlin is coom he holep-ed me byuy Cheetos they were so famdamn delicoisu I loved em all bits of em. Yummmmm mmm CH3eetos. He's plaiygn qith sa card now I c don'st know whT IST SIS Caps lock sucks it makes the drunk look stupid. I am typing a bout for serioushere. Make a move. A hundred times. Rubeber band is actually whwat he platys with ai used to do that in siexth gradee that swhit ewas he shit. AAAAAAGH. tHIS is thr only time you'll ever see me limket this i promise.


foprever///

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EDIT: Wow. Just wow. I think this is a work of art, I'm keeping it as is.

If You Have Love In You're Heart, There's No Need To Prepare For Christmas

Four out of the past five times I've taken a shit there's been no toilet paper in the room. We have a whole batch of toilet paper, but all the way across the apartment in the second bathroom (that's right, ladies, two bathrooms, right next to the Lambourgini and the piles of golden-gilded coke, aww yeah). This requires either an awkward "Hey..." conversation through the creaked doorway with my pants around my ankles or an embaressing hobble across the hall with a careful attempt not to touch anything. Either way, I go through a few moments of solemn mental preperation before retrieving the necessary stash. "Oh, God..." I mumble, thinking to myself how I had promised last time I would never repeat this situation. Never again, I vow loudly, never again! But four out of five times. Four out of five times, people! Is this registering with you as much as it should? That's a huge amount of times I had to do a little waltz with shit still in my ass. I shouldn't have to tell you that that ain't fun.

I put toilet paper in the bathroom so hopefully this won't happen again. But as studies have shown, fate has something against me.

They Just Won't Let Tyson Go For That Whole Ear Thing

So I attended a 24 hour horror movie marathon last weekend. But I had to go by myself because all my friends had other things to do. Somehow doing homework, seeing parents and going to concerts was more important than seeing Scanners, Return Of The Living Dead, and Demons BACK TO MOTHER FUCKING BACK, but that was their perogative I suppose. It is a movie theatre after all, tisn't impossible to have fun all by lonesome. Man, I can't rightly express to you how enjoyable it was to walk into the theatre at noon and leave at... noon. I felt like a member of elite horror fans, staying up through an entire rotation of the Earth and watching many people die or be turned into evil creatures. Such an intense amount of blood and gore, all on the big screen with a crowd that was of like mind and appreciation was a beautiful thing.

I don't know how many of you have heard of the film Aftermath by Nacho Cerda, but the US premiere screening was that very night, on account of it's being widely banned in basically everywhere in the world. There was all manner of build-up behind this movie, you know: Banned everywhere, first screening, audiences in a Toronto screening were left vomiting in the streets. So having heard all the tales about this film, I sort of took it as a personal challenge to make it through. The film begins, the doctor cuts into the body. The head is split open and the brain is removed, all manner of crunching noises. Now, I've seen quite a bit of gore in my day. But this was some of the most realistic I'd ever seen on film; I was debating with myself whether or not they incorporated a real body for the filming. About 10 minutes in, I started feeling the tingle. You know that tingle when you're about to throw up? That whole rising of what feels almost electric in your body, a strange vibrating numbness from the stomach up? I was thinking to myself "Oh shit, I'm actually going to throw up during this thing." I decided it was too much to bare and excused myself for the bathroom. I didn't feel like I was going to throw up, and decided to simply pee and let things work themselves out.

I dreamt. I don't know what I dreamt, but I think I was laughing. I dreamt whatever it was I dreamt the night previous, though I don't remember what that is either. But I think I was laughing.

I wake up on the floor, my penis still protuding over the top of my unzipped pants. A crowd of two is staring at me on the ground, one decides it may be a good idea to help me up.

"Are you alright man?"
"Yeah... Did I hit my head or anything?"
"No, you fell into me in the middle of my piss. I didn't know if you were on acid or something."
"I'm definitely not on acid."
"Um, I didn't finish my piss."

I let the man behind me get back to his dirty business and proceeded to pull up my pantaloons and wash my sullied hands. What the fuck just happened?

I had a seizure, I think. Maybe I just blacked out for a second. Either way, I passed out on the ground for the duration of about a second. Was this the movie that did this to me?

Idly joining the other few that had left the theatre area, I took a look at the movie, still in progress, through the windows of the entrance doors. Hmm. That guy is still doing an autopsy on that damn body. I didn't realize cutting the dick off the body then probing the hole you just made with blunt objects was standard procedure. Then again, I don't have a medical liscence. What do I know? Maybe you're supposed to climb on top and fuck the body after you've cut it open.

So the question then came to mind, as oft does in situations somewhat similar to this: Am I a pussy? I fucking passed out during a god damned horror movie, only pussies do that. This film was a personal challenge, an attempt to prove myself better than all the Torontons who blew their bagged lunches upon witnessing this film. I failed. I couldn't do it. Guy outside the theatre on his cell phone, talking with someone about the movie. "Yeah, I stepped out for a second. It was just so boring, you know?" Hmm. Boring. I talked with a friend of mine the next day, another avid horror man; said he'd thought the film was "pointless". Pointless. Boring. So it was essentially a presentation in 7th grade social studies class that caused me to writhe on the floor of the mens room? I must be a pussy. There's no two ways about this. There were tons of people still watching the film, all less of a pussy than you. What the hell, man, you couldn't sit through that? That was nothing. My grandma and I watched that on her 65th anniversary. We laughed then had tea. It was Earl Grey. She yawned. Oh, she said you're a pussy, too.

Upon post-examination of the film, it appears it is nothing but gory things happening, no real storyline or plot. I'm guessing here, I didn't stay for the whole thing. But that may be why so many found it "boring", they're used to the gore. It rolls right off their back, just like that guys kidneys did in the movie. I've never had a reaction to any movie like that before. It was really strange for me. I started to imagine what else it could have been, perhaps the 7+ Monster energy drinks I had over the past 2 hours. No, I was feeling fine. They had basically worn off, those things don't do much for me. They were free, who am I to turn down free shit? No other factors really came to mind. It seems like to big a coincidence for me to react that way after just hearing that this was a seemingly common reaction to it.

Which means I am nothing but a common pussy.

I later thought to myself that this was the wrong way to look at it. First off, I like horror movies, but they're not all I watch. I'm not completely desensitized to gore, I still sort of go "Oooooh" when the Yankee rolls around in the barrel of nails in 2000 Maniacs, tame as that may be by todays standards. I've never watched Faces Of Death, nor would be particularly interested to, because gore and death and blood and etcetera are not solely what I like horror for. I like the camp, the bad storylines, the suspense, the ridiculousness, the clever lines, the intrigue, the shadows, and, yes, the gore. I like still being senstive to gore; if I weren't, movies which are simply a gore-fest would be of no interest to me. I think gore is sick, funny, gruesome, interesting, and at times, overwhelming. But I don't really get squeamish at anything, which made me wonder about Aftermath. What was it exactly that hit me about that film over any other? How was it different? I could probably see things in it no one who is desensitized could, because for them it's nothing new. For me, I'm trying to discover how it's new.

This movie was,seen by many, I believe, including myself, as a kind of personal challenge. Prove your tolerance level. Part of my reaction may have been all the talk of feeling woozy afterwards; who knows how I would've felt had I not head anything about it. Part of it may have been one specific thing that got me; I think it may have been all the sounds of bone-cracking, that shit gets me, it seems. And, yes, part of it may simply be that I'm a pussy. But so what? Pussys get more out of the art of cinema than others. If people try to hold in their fears, tears or cheers in an attempt to "beat" the movie and not be a pussy, they missed something. If you cry during a movie, it is not that you are not a man. It is that the movie got to you in some way. It affected you. This is good. If we become so desensitized that we try to repress reaction to film, we'll get far less out of it than if we just let it out. I get giddy when I watch TV, I don't know about you. The whole episode of The X Files I watched today, I knew that shady guy in the long wig was Krycek, I fucking knew it. But I didn't say "Yeah, I knew it was him" upon revealing this fact. I waited til he showed up and jumped to the heavens in joy, after spending the entirity of the episode excited for the moment. Because I still feel when I partake in art.

And if that makes me a pussy, then so be it.

P.S. I plan on renting Aftermath and giving it another chance. I'm going to gauge my reaction and compare it to the other night, I'll keep you posted on my findings.

I Tend To Think Everyone Is Named Brian

I have seemed to persistantly avoided this whole HaloScan business, and I am glad frankly. I don't need no new age techno bullshit plauging my airwaves with its "Take Me To Your Leader" cyborg bullshit. That's right, I said bullshit twice in one run on sentence. Sue me, go on. I can say bullshit as many times as I damn well please, typically in direct proportion to how much bullshit the topic at hand actually is. Bullshit.

But now they have this whole business of "Word Verification", wherein you gotta type like "bizpharma" or some non-existant word in order to prove you are a human being and capable of comprehending illogical words without having your head implode. I am considering taking this step in my comment options, simply to keep out you no-good robotics what want me to click some link and increase my penis size tenfold. Well, you know what? My penis is just fine and keep your grubby hands off of it. Though I did initially have a very slight amount of fun in pretending the robot spammers were real and responding to them as though they actually did bookmark my site and actually were going to check back often and actually did have important info on billiard ball watchgolden round table thing the, but that got tiresome very fast as their numbers did increase by the plenties. Now I got people named "jon" or "vinnie vinnie two hands" jocking on my grill touting their wares at inopportune times, all the time, like a clock with a coocoo on repeat. I want them to go away, and am thus considering selloing my soul to the Blog Satans and getting word verification. But do you people want to have to read some swivled word on acid just to tell me that the point I made is somewhat valid? You tell me. I get so few comments as it is, I don't want to drive those few who still read this teaming pile away.

Arr Mother Fucker I'm A Pirate/Gonna Take Your Treasure Bitch And Hide It

Man, ya'll don't even know. Or even realize, even. I got mad secrets, dogg. Deep and dark, like a chasm, or like maybe a creepy closet or something, all in a haunted house's attic. There are things about me I can't express to anyone, not a soul. These feelings, they scare me, what with them being all deep and dark and all that. Here are some poems I have written to help me express the inexpressible:

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GOODNIGHT, MOON - CEPT THE EVIL VERSION AND I KILL THE MOON IN THE END

Bottle
There is the bottle.
I break the bottle. Half.
Half the bottle.
See it?
Kiss the bottle.
Make love unto the broken bottle which I have in my hands.
It is your enemy
Enemy
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SOME COLD AND LONELY

The corner of my bed is the only place for me to crawl. Can you watch me crawl to the corner of my bed? Because that

is where I am going.

Times are hard, like hundreds of nails glued together; cohesive piece.
Of nail.
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A SMART BOMB OF SADNESS TOURS MY CITY

we are but a dark endless night cannot this be the way unto heaven where is heaven anyway i don't know where it is. sometimes i think about the little ant and ponder it walking it walking it walking it walking build house little one let the community you thrive grow and let the man with shoe on destroy your souls underneath its sole its sole its sole its sole its sole can you understand

i cannot

help me to be there i long to be

lost amidst a carpet
lost but not adrift.
.
.
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THE KNIFE OF SADNESS

Grab the knife of sadness, grab, grab.
Stab into your gladness, stab, stab.
Strap your soul unto the table.
Strap it down, it is unable.
Grab the knife of sadness, grab, grab.
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HOW DO THEY DO IT - REPRISE

When I look outside sometimes I see the happy ones, the gazers, the chasers, the yearners and dreamers. Sometimes I see them all. When the one small child I see outside through my window disobeys his mother and runs into the park, I see it. I see it all.

That child is dead.

A hundred thousand daffodils cannot bring him back. And yet I see it all when I look outside sometimes.

That child is dead, and I am that child.
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FOREVER

forever is but a nightmare away
forever
forever come to me in my sleep and we shall dance the eternal dance
forever
forever
for there is no "ever" without "forever" and we cannot live on mullberries alone
forbearance is a gift we give the black knight of darkness upon retrieval of
...forever
forever...
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PILLAGE RAPE DESTROY

spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head a hundred times over into infinity
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CONSEQUENCES

We cannot choose. We cannot know what it means. No one knows, no one chooses. These consequences are mine and mine alone, you can't have them, Mom and Dad. Never for they are mine alone and I alone shall eat them like souls.

Souls, mother.
Souls, father.
Souls, Grandpa Timmy, too.

We wish we could choose. We wish we could see. But all we get is nothingness.

Nothingness of everything.
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DESTROY EVERYTHING AND BLACK DARKNESS WRITHING CANNOT YOU SEE CANNOT YOU SEE CANNOT YOU SEE I FLY INTO FOREVER WHICH IS NIGHT AND THE SKY ABOVE IS BLEEDING RED WITH INNOCENSE QUESTIONS QUESTIONS FOREVER

he.
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THE

...................end.

Question mark?
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I'm sorry if maybe I've scared some of you away, but I need these demons released from my being, through literary means. The demon souls that haunt me and the dark place I go shall remain forever, but nothing helps the fear like not exposing it. Let not ye judge me.

Let not.

And Then In Response He Just Kind Of Stared At Me

Well, I did it. It finally came to this. I turned in a blog post for a school assignment. Completely unedited and unfiltered. I may regret this. This is what happens when you have 20 minutes to write 5 pages on an undecided topic. It'll all turn out for the best, I assume.

Regret is awful. Yet regret is all I ever feel after drinking too much. I love everyone in the room, unless they tell me to go to bed. I express this love in the form of vomit; the more you have to clean up, the more I love you.

I hate myself when I'm drunk. If I saw myself when I was drunk, I would scoff in the direction of myself, and continue to scoff in a variety of different ways throughout the course of the night. I tell every guy around me that they are awesome. Then I proceed to piss them off. I hit on every girl around me, with no forseeable intention to either sleep with them or even continue some sort of platonic relationship. It seems, in retrospect, simply designed to piss them off. And it always works, by cracky.

Most of this is told in story form after the fact, the next morning, on accounta I black the fuck out for a while. These stories are usually told in the "Oh my god, this guy was a total jackass last night" vein, followed by an extended list of offenses performed and things cleaned. God damn.

Well, whatever. Everyone usually gets over it very quickly, even before I do. I hate myself the most out of everyone who may hate me after what I did. Everything I've ever hated is manifested into my drunken self.

Not to mention being super drunk is a two day process. I had to nurse the hangover the whole next day. I didn't go to class and didn't do any work. This is what I've become.

For that night, at least. I rationalize my behavior by having long periods of time in which I do not drink. I'm better than some, right?

Right?

Gah, forget about it.

I Tried To Put On My Left Shoe But It Was Really The Right Shoe So I Put It On My Right Foot But It Turned Out It Was The Left Shoe After All

I'm gonna grab that bottle right out of your hands then promptly run down the street and hand it to a homeless man who will then don a cape and reveal himself as the king of a foriegn country and we'll go skiing together the next day. Then, six buckets of ice cream later, everyone will smile intently as we sing songs from old commercials no one watches anymore that may or may not have been referenced by Family Guy, I haven't decided. I'll pop open the door to my compact disc player (portable) and play some hip-hop from 1982 LOUD until our neighbors come down but not to yell, to PARTY. Dance. And how come those pickles in the fast food hamburger taste so bad? I would write a name down on a piece of paper, tear it into small pieces and smuggle it into a wasteful, wasteful ticker tape parade if I thought it would help, but that thought never crossed my mind. Gonna skip town, if I were 100 feet tall. Not gonna do it now I guess is the answer. The stars look like asteroids.

Don't look at me that way. I'm gonna climb the tallest mountain and you and your little sponge buddies can only stop me with a special decoder ring, found only in specially marked boxes. And I have all those boxes so what you gonna do.

I don't need a shower, only my ears do.

Liberal Propaganda Likely To Follow

Pissin'!

You ladies got it easy in the pissin' department, lemme tell you. Oh, whoop dee poo, you have to do such as wipe with toilet paper? Big deal. You get to sit down, relax and just drop juices like you were an early frontiersman. You get the subtle joy of reading Newsweek while excreting fluids. All we men folk get to learn during urination is the underlying embarrasment of what the situation at hand is.

Ok, ladies, sorry to get up in arms, I mean no particular anything by my comments on how much easier pissin' is for you. In fact there's probably all manner of intricacies to your routine I am not and shall neve be aware of. But I just want the world to be aware of what it is those with penises need to watch out for while releasing frontal fluids. Mainly, people take an issue with aim. It's easy for a person whose target encompasses their firing squad to judge urine on the floor as poor penis aim, but there's more to it than that. The straightest shooter in the world has issues now and again, a little dribble here and there happens to the best of us. While it is courteous to clean it up if it happens, the chance of it happening is probably higher than you think. For instance:

1. The Falling Seat

Thankfully I've never actually been victim to this, but knowing me it'll happen sooner than expected. Poor hinge control on certain toilets disallows the seats staying up properly. Often I will prop the seat upwards and mentally prepare myself for evacuation when the seat will fall down just as I'm about to go. And this will happen several times before I can finally get it to stay. Thankfully I'm able to catch myself before anything too drastic happens, but I can see the liklihood of someone peeing on the seat as it kamikazes itself into the line of fire as a rather common occurance.

2. Stranded Pube

Oh, those wacky pubic hairs. What are they thinking, sometimes, huh? This is another problem that can happen: A pubic hair innapropiately lodged in the hole of the penis. It happens. Who knows how it got there, but it found its way and it is there to sabotage your whole procedure. This usually occurs during the first piss in the morning, the piss that I am least mentally prepared for. The pube causes the urine to spray in two distinct paths: If you're lucky, one stream will find it's way into the bowl, but the other one always sprays to the side. When you're real unlucky, both streams go in unintended directions. Aim is not the issue here; the stream really, really wanted to disobey your command, and now you pay the price.

3. Post-Sex Tourrettes Dick

The post-fuck pee, though a satisfying one, is often a dangerous one. This piss can be very erratic, hard to control, and generally noncompliant. A skilled, or "wicked", pisser can train themselves to overcome this and gain control of their flailing appendage before any serious damage is done, but novices and the tired often have a little collateral damage here and there.

4. Drunk Pee

Well, this one should be obvious. Motor skills become compromised and can result in puddling. Often when one gets beyond the point of urine control one tends to do it in public so as to avoid the aim issue. A tree judges less harshly than the good people at Holiday Inn. (Side note: Pee on rocks when in the woods, rather than trees; this way deers dont have to eat your urine when they take a nibble at some fauna.)

5. The Shake

Come on, fellahs. You ought to know by now how to shake properly, but apparantly this remains a problem. An improper shake can expedite excess fluids on the rim, the seat, the sink, and the business suit of your stall neighbor. Not every toilet is a urinal, you have to show some caution. You can't just pee willy and nilly, doing acrobatics and ghostwriting the great American novel on a regular toilet seat. Urinals are designed for tricks and chaotic shakes, but not regular toilet seats. Keep playfulness to a minimum, just get the job done. This ain't Denny's.

6. The Almost

Once in a while we all run into the issue of barely getting to a bathroom. Still, urgency is little excuse for inaccuracy. I'll let this slide under the most dire circumstances, but typically ones aim should not be allowed to falter despite the six pitchers of Guinness you just had. Do we tolerate nutty diarhhea all over the floor in noodle mishaps? No, we don't. The line needs to be drawn.

7. Low Seat Sydrome

Some bowls are lower to the ground than others. This can throw some people off, as they are used to higher up seats. Lower seats mean more distance between the bowl and Dangly Johnny, hit-miss ratio is bound to be affected. Still, I should hope we all have aim that is good enough to adjust. We've all been practicing for this kind of thing our whole lives.

Reminder: If you have poor aim and would like to practice, please do not do it at public restrooms or bathrooms you share with someone else. Get a cinder block and mark an X on it and go out to the backyard.

And very important: Any mess you may have, excusable or not, should be promptly cleaned. That shit is gross.

Pissing is a much more complex process than we often give it credit for. Today, while pretending to be working, think about your urinary tract. Think long and hard on the issues that little guy faces each and every day, the problems s/he runs into and the hardships endured. Pee-Pee Hole: Respect It, Love It.

I Am Actually A Girl.

I saw a friend of mine from back home last night. He was in Chicago with his rugby team and had a night to hang out, so he shot me an e-mail saying he wanted to meet up. This e-mail excitedly began by referring to me as "jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!!!" (I may not have appropiated the correct amount of a's or !'s, but I believe you understand the general idea here). Now, the traditional spelling of my nam contains only one A, and the sheer magnitude of A's led me to believe this was no accident. This greeting expressed an excitement to see me, as though I were some kind of crazy party animal who simply exudes raucus good times.

Well, that certainly wasn't so. We met last night and did nothing. My usual Friday night, only this time I had a spectator to see just how pathetic my life is. We walked around downtown and ran into some interesting fellows on the train and street, who really only furthered to prove just how uninteresting I am. My friend is here from back home, haven't seen each other in a while, he's all excited to see me, and I can't deliver. I have nothing. My conversation is weak, with no stories of recent interesting things that happened to me. "I went to a concert." "I walked by the lake." "Say, did you happen to see that episode of SVU?" Whoop-dee-shit. We met up with my roommate later, who had a more boisterous conversation, and though they also talked about nothing in particular, it was clear that my friend preferred his snippet of talking better than mine.

One of my main goals in life is to keep down my depression. Not to supress it into the back of my mind, but simply to not let it show so it doesn't bring down other people. They don't need that shit, and I don't want to put it upon them. It makes for awkward situations and boring evenings. I don't really have anything worthy of being sad over anyway; turn on the news and immedietly you see someone in a worse situation than yours. I'm lame when I'm sad. No one wants to hang out with Grumps McDougle. No one wants to party in a corner, listening to Downward Spiral and conversing about how God hates humans over a snifter of peach Crystal Light. I am lame, deep down, but my goal is to make it seem less obvious so that those who sometimes are around me don't get circled into my rodeo.

I tend to feel like everyone in the world is having more fun than I am. I hear all these stories while eavedropping of "I was so wasted" or "That chick was so hot", etc. And while I truly want nothing to do with these people nor their actions, I feel like despite their annoying attributes they're having a better time than me. You hear all this stuff about one-night stands and drugs and illegal activity, and even if the moral of their story is that immediate pleasure does not make up for the consequences, at least they had that immediate pleasure. What do I got? I read an article about a man who was a heroin junkie. It read like basically every other "I did drugs and live to tell you about it!" story, one of those "Don't do what I do, kids" sort of exposes. But as I'm reading it, I notice the aftermath, the consequences, of the heroin use took about one or two paragraphs to relay, whereas the "Everything feels right with the world!" segment lasted essentially the rest of the article. So you hit rock bottom and fell to the kitchen floor wiped out on H. That sounds more entertaining than pacing the floor of your apartment pretneding like you're looking for something, then sitting back down when you pretend like you couldn't find it. Most anti-drug stories essentially are saying you shouldn't do drugs because I did them and look what happened to me. Yeah, look what happened to you. You're the editor of a major magazine, you have written many books and pieces for major publications, and you'll always have a story to write about. If you had taken your own advice from the start, chances are you'd be pulling moderate grades at some university and playing chess with the computer on Saturday nights. You'd be where I am now.

Satisfaction of life is based highly on stories. If you have something to say at the end of the day, you've done good. You can have an "Oh my God, you would not believe what happened to me..." lined up in case a friend comes to visit. I feel like I'm not really depressed even, I'm at a neutral state. If there were something horrible going on in my life, I'd be worse off than I am now and actually be able to pinpoint a reason why. If something great were happening, I'd be happy as a clam and be able to enjoy life. As it stands, I have neither, and thus am simply malaise. Bored. Down. I'm feeling like I need something drastic in my life, good or bad, in order to shock treament myself out of this funk. But, as is the nature of a funk, the funk itself prevents me from getting out of it.

I had the worst headache I can remember last night. I had it basically the whole time my friend was here, but it really started to kill me as I went to sleep. It was the most painful experience of recent memory. So here I am, curled up into bed, head pounding at an alarming rate, people punding the floors moving in upstairs, tears streaming down my face, thinking about how pathetic I am. It's just like the two paragraphs of rock bottom in a drug tale, but without even the enjoyment of being on the drugs.

Such is life, I suppose.