All Talkin' 'Bout Commas Like Ya'll Boutta Make A List Or Sumpin

My roommate just bought a couch. He is going to paint his room red too.

We are moving in a week.

...

I guess I don't understand the motives.

To Put A Can On A Coaster Is Simply Too Much Coaster

So I never discovered the origin of the puddle. But I don't think it was my roommates. So, apologies to them for all the words I had yesterday, though likely they will never be read. It was in all likelihood the cieling dripping, on account of it is squishy and holey like a sponge cake, but it still seems like a shit-ton of water, and underneath my blankets no less. Who the hell knows how it got there. Either way I had a shitty night last night and it made for a shitty day today. Shitty Mondays lead to shitty weeks. Shitty weeks extend to shitty months, which eventually through a series of terms of ever-growing amounts of time, my life will suck forever and I'll have to leap off a building while slitting my wrists with a shotgun. If somewhere along the line someone buys me a Fudge Round all of this can be averted.

So I went about today with a scowl on my jowls and bowels and was happy to hate the world. But I bought a ticket to see Jim Gaffigan earlier in the month and that was tonight. Bad timing, as I usually am not teribly receptive to comedy in a pissy state. But he cut through and got plenty o' chuckles outta me. I just wish I could have been a better audience member for him. On a good day, I would have given him much more laughs and he would have felt so much better about himself. But I did my best, and cracked up several times. My mind always acts confused when I'm having a bad day and something good happens. "What... laughter? Cut that out, your supposed to be wallowing! You call this sulking? How are you ever going to remain angry for days after the origin has become irrelevant at this rate? Damn you Jack." Yeah, well.

I hate going to things like this by myself, but I'm pretty much getting used to doing everything by myself nowadays. It was odd at a comedy show, because here I am, just some dude sitting alone laughing. Just all chortling and making silly noises all by himself. I dunno. It was a little odd. I was just a guy there, laughing away. Just laughing is all. Just by himself and laughing. That. Just a guy. There. That was me.

But also the seating was uncomfortable. Bleachers, dogg. Bleachers. What is that about. I felt like I was in high school again at some function such as a pep ralley or perhaps a principal telling us how our generation had failed the one previous. But instead I was actually at a function I wanted to be at. What was that about. Bleachers suck cuz how the hell do you sit in them is the question. There's no back. There's no place to put your legs/feet. Spine all bent forward, legs all scrunched or in someones way. And I don't know but you, but I needs to lean when I sit. I'm a leaner (I took the name of the thing I like to do and turned it into an adjective as a representation of what I am jus there, did you see that). But there's no logical way to lean or even sit regular on a bleacher. The best I could do was scrunch my pelvis into the Tetris game of the foot area and like put my feet upwards, using the seat behind me as a back (I don't know if I'm explaining this well). This sort of works except for the fact that it basically equates to grabbing your testicles and slamming them in a door then keeping it closed. Other than that it was... wel, still pretty uncomfortable. But anywho. He did the Hot Pocket bit and that is what people like to hear from him. I think maybe he did other jokes too. But I laughed and all was well. Here's to better days.

I Missed My Stop At Hullaballoo Station

I swear to fucking Christ, if it was one of you motherfuckers that live with me that did this I am going to take a fucking Mexican-food dump on your brand-new couch and spread it around with the stream of my urine. Then I will get Tammy Faye to fucking menstrual bleed in your mouth while you sleep. You flabby bastard cunts.

I can't officially blame my roommates I guess, but I'm going to. Here I am, 2 in the morning, I'm fucking tired as hell seeing as how I have slept very little this past week. I planned to slip under the covers, nice and warm, read my book and gently drift off to sleep. It was going to be glorious.

BUT THERE IS A GIGANTIC FUCKING PUDDLE IN THE MIDDLE OF MY BED.

All caps is not a highly looked-upon way to write text, I understand, but this is how I am saying these words. FUCK. It doesn't smell like urine, and I certainly didn't even have a chance to pee in my bed since last time I was in it. I some fucking racehorse needed a place to rest between laps he could've used my roommates fucking mothers vag. I don't need this shit.

It rained. Maybe it is spill-over from the rain, he says in his head. Yeah fucking right, rain poured in through the window, underneath three sets of blankets and managed to get nowhere else but on the bed. This shit seems deliberate. I am pissed. Feel my vein.

I fucking hate the world right now, especially since I can see the laughter in my god damn asshole roommates face as he tells me it was him and fucking proud of his little joke was. Well, let me tell you something, cock: Pranks such as these can be funny to those WHO ARE FRIENDS. We are not friends anymore. Any semblance of good attitude I had toward you is now officially out the fucking window along with your fucking ball sack if I hear you laughing about your exploits in the morning. Fuck you with all my heart and soul. Sincerily.

I'm not saying my roommates did it officially or even what the fuck it is, but no matter what I am fucking pissed as your geriatric cooter, and if these assholes think this shit is funny I am going to chop their fucking faces off and feed them to their assholes. I am not amused and you are not my friends. FUCK YOU.

(If you didn't do it, apologies. But I'm saying fuck you anyway because I am in hate with the Earth right now and want to watch it burn. Am I overreacting? Fuck you too.)

Run Off Of A Cliff And Say Fuck

I hate my body. It sucks. And I don't mean in that bullshit 9th grade girl bullemic throw-up-cuz-mommy-wouldn't-buy-me-fakey-boobies self-pity trip one has after watching VH1 for 6 days straight. I mean sections of my body rebel against the whole and I hate them. I yell at them. I don't know what they're trying to do, take over my body, piss off the mind to a level of disrepair, or just have a good time because they don't get the same attention as some parts of my body (sorry lymph nodes, you can NEVER be testicles. Try as you might, testicles are so much more fun), but no matter what the reason, it happens and often. I hate my shoulder. I hate my big toenail on my right foot. I ocassionally hate my neck. I hate my anus. I hate my gastro-intestinal system. I hate how I choke all the god damn time. Hate! These parts of me are always acting up. God damn them. Yes, they deserve to die, and I hope they burn in hell. They are seperate parts of me that I can personify and yell at, and do. Anyone who has watched me climb a tree can attest. I assume other people have issues with their bodies too (again, not a "oh boo hoo my butt is too fat in these jeans someone buy me new pants and tell me I'm pretty in front of my Mom so she knows she was wrong" kind of issues) and I would love to hear about what parts of you you hate. Rap with me. Let's bitch about bones and blood, your issues with tissues and that fucking pinky toe that keeps getting chopped off. Zamf.

Too Much Bonch

I have felt unusually empty through this school year. I have nothing really going for me and nothing to give me a sense of well-being. I am nada. This is why I am leaving. I am giving up on trying to tough out this shit and am banking on the hopes that this is caused externally and not internally. Over this week that I have been back, I have continued to prove to myself that this is a good decision. Roommate interactions are as awkward as ever. Social interactions remain relatively stagnant. I hear the good fortune of others and immedietly see it as a reference point for a lack in my life. I am eating less. I am poor. And nothing happens to me. A saddening imprint of my ass on the couch when I get up to go to the bathroom is evidence of a wasted life. I'm too cheap to do drugs; if I weren't there'd at least be a pit stop on the way to depression.

But on Sunday I watched a movie with a group of friends like old times. We drank beer and ate too much crappy candy. Inappropiate sexual comments were flung about. It rained like God was angry and I got soaking wet.

Earlier that evening I stood up to use the bathroom after having sat down for some time. Once in the bathroom, I woke up on the floor with my face directly in front of the bowl and a slight pain in my skull. Apparantly I had passed out for a second and did a faceplant directly into the porcelain of an open toilet bowl. Luckily I was not peeing at the time (I've been down that road before, it is not a pretty site). There is now a cut in between my eyebrows and a lump that feels pain when I look down. I often have trouble with passing out for a quick second after standing up to fast, or something, but this has not happened to me in some time, and never to the point where I smash into a toilet bowl I-Ate-The-Worm style.

Today I had a friendly conversation with my roommate. This does not happen anymore, and I was delighted and surprised that any comments I spoke to him did not elicit a "Mmm" followed by leaving the room or a subtle ignorance of response or emotion, but instead with follow-up statements and rebuttals, even laughs and agreements. We were watching "The Simpsons", a long-time point of comradry between us, revelling in the joy of early episodes and the bane of post-9th-season blasphemy. We had not conversed as such in some time; even earlier in the day he flat-out ignored my comment on how my animation teacher works on The Venture Bros., a current favorite of both of ours and what I assumed would be a sure-fire conversation starter (I was saving it for just the right moment to spring this information on him, perhaps I picked the wrong time). Our light, yet brief, period in which we spoke reminded me that we were once friends and used to talk like this all the time.

I also met a man while walking down Armitage who interested me. I am not sure why he decided I was worthy of talking with, but he struck up a conversation with me on my way to walk around aimlessly about town. He asked if I liked rock and roll. He told me of an old boombox he had which was decrepid and falling apart but still worked. He asked if I got high. The conversation was brief and mostly muffled by the train passing by, but I learned that he had a 22 year old son whom he had never met and that his "Good Book" was written by Alcoholics Anonymous. Perhaps he was trying to tell me not to do drugs. He told me of Hindu spiritualism as the best high there is. He made an analogy about standing in the middle of traffic that I didn't quite understand. Perhaps he thought I was his son. He told me, should I ever need him again, to stick out my right hand and stroke my chin and he will appear. We shook hands and he left. This Lynchian introduction to a man most would've said "I don't have any change" and moved on caught my interest, as nothing else had really happened to me today. Looking into a sea of people in a city of names, you forget sometimes that some of these people are interesting.

None of these events deserve the name "events". If I hadn't just written them all down I'd have forgotten them by the end of the week. Essentially, nothing really happened, as nothing really came of any of these. But maybe that's where I'm wrong about nothing happening in my life. Just because they are of no consequence does not mean they didn't happen. Therein lies their consequence: They were significant enough to me for me to have remembered them after they happened. I am under the impression that a happy life is that in which interesting things happen to you at such a degree that events like these will not even register for me. But perhaps if I reach that level I'll be missing out on these little events, passing over their meaning in favor of something that affects me deeper. So maybe I'm not happy now. But things are happening. I can't forget that.