You know how it's 99% disgusting to throw-up? It stinks, burns, splashes everywhere, makes your eyes water, and cramps up your stomach muscles. BUT, there is the 1%. That far corner of your mind that you don't want to admit is there in the middle of your five alarm fire of hot mess. It is the part that is enjoying the vomiting process. Hopefully, my blog is that 1% .
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Hi, I’m Greg. And you are? That’s a beautiful name...Fuck Off. Is it 2 words or just 1? Sounds Croatian. Seriously, I just wanted to say "Hi" because I noticed your beautiful smile when I walked in. Oh, her? No, she’s just a friend from work. She doesn’t even want to be here. Ok fine. Watch this...hey Becky, fuck off! See, I used your name in a sentence. No seriously Becky, you should totally leave, I’m talking to my new friend here and I’m about to play some Def Leppard in the jukebox. She hates Def Leppard. Sorry about that, I really tried to protect her feelings but sometimes you just have to be direct. So, what are you drinking? Really, Bushmills? Blech, I can’t really stomach that. Waitress, I’ll take 2 Bushmills. I guess it’s never too late to try something new. Hey can I ask you your input about something? I am totally going to get a new tattoo and I need an objective opinion and an objective opinion from a beautiful girl is even better. Do you know where I can find one? Ha, just kidding, you will totally get used to that. I have a wicked funny sense of humor. And timing. Oh sorry, right. Okay, you know how EVERYONE has those faggy, barbed wire or tribal band tats around their biceps? Oh thank you. Yeah, I guess I started getting serious about lifting in 10th grade. It really has become a way of life for me. Back then it was all long hair and long hours in the gym getting pumped...sigh. Oh yeah, I was thinking about getting a monkey swinging from limb to limb all the way around and then BLAMMO, fucking TARZAN chasing him. You know, like Cheetah forgot to clean his room and Tarzan is pissed. You gotta figure Cheetah got sick of Tarzan acting all anal all the time and just started throwing all his feces at him. What? Sure but it will be really hard to hear you from here. What? See, I told you. But our Bushmills aren’t even here yet. Okay but specifically speaking, what exactly did I do wrong? Nice. Look it couldn’t be everything. Well I got this from my ex. 1994. I think it looks good. Fine, well if I ever meet Eddie Vedder, I’m telling him what you said. Fine. You don’t have to tell me twice. Well can I at least get your phone number? Okay your name then? Can I look for you on FaceBook? Jesus. Well, that went well Greg. Good job.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Lately I’ve been eating like 8 meals a day. Not 8 Julian Michaels meals mind you (you know: 8 satisfying, healthy, small meals, to keep your blood sugar stable and you in a perpetual state of unhungry), more like Dom DeLuise 8 meals; a bombardment of heart stopping, panic-attack inducing, binge eating without the relief or satisfaction of a purge- unless accidental/involuntary- which is promptly met with frustration at the thought of refilling the insatiable chasm of my appetite. I’ve even tried watching continuous loops of snuff films on all five of my LCD screens in A Clockwork Orange effort to curb my hunger, all to zero effect. I guess I have to just come to terms with what is really at play: I’m giving up. Balding, forty, on the brink of poverty, and an inability to ejaculate more than 5 millimeters has all left me a shell of the man I formerly was. I play hockey like I’m eighty and weave uncontrollably while I drive. I stain my underwear and couldn’t get a girl to do a double-take unless I shout obscenities in her general direction. Sure there are small semblances of upsides to my midlife crisis: excessive marijuana consumption, copious amounts of booze and lack of desire to masturbate. But these tiny pleasures are mere distractions to my final conclusion: never mind,I forgot the ending.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
I was walking back to my car and it dawned on me that I left the iron on. It’s amazing how forgetful you get when you kill a hooker by applying too much Vicks Vapor Rub. Is that even a thing? You imaGine that your focus becomes as narrowed as she promised her vagina to be but wE all know how that turned out. Anyway, I can’t seem to concentrate on any 1 thing at a time anymore. My mind is constantly racing with thoughts about dinner, hoCkey and fly fishing. Which doesn’t make any sense right since fly fishing requires an ability to relax and focus all at once. Maybe it was the 8-ball? I’m thinking at a frenetic pace and I’m typing 2 sentences ahead of myself. Right now I’ve already thought of that. And that. And that. And that. Can you feel my skin crawling? I thought maybe you could because you are living all over me. Okay tell me you heard that? It’s like a perfect mix of a child crying and a blue whale cow delivering conjoined calfs. Jesus, remember that time we went to Knotts Berry Farm and ate caraMel appLes and dropped acid? I swear to God, you kept asking everyone there directions to Space Mountain. WhataRiot!