Wednesday, September 17, 2014


For a short moment in my life, I lived in Tucson. Met a bunch of unique people. So many in fact, that I realized later that it wasn't that hard. Every person in my network located in the strip of desert from Phoenix to Tucson is what I like to refer to as a horizontal philosopher.
Each of them has this incredible unique personality that doesn't stop to deal with outside bullshit. They're smart, judged by their cover, and keep you thinking. The blend of bohemian rigged lifestyles paired with whatever they can afford to get them stoned or drunk makes them some of those most resilient, depthy, ingenuitive people I've ever met. Seriously, one of my friends survived as long as he could on the desert, eating berries and small game because he wanted to.

This may not be a special thing if you know a lot of hippies or live in Oregon. Kind of a neat thing to me considering it's the desert and Pan is literally insane.

I went to visit them a couple of months ago and managed to take a few pictures in moments of sobriety.

This is a point between Prescott and Phoenix where you can smoke and not be arrested for almost starting a fire. Its meant for tourists.

The greatest thing I discovered in that visit was realizing how many people lay down. I took tons of Pan sleeping because he sleeps literally anywhere comfortably. I've only ever seen this with Nardo before, but Pan takes it to another level entirely.

I mean it's like as long as he can rest his belly on something remotely soft, he's good. Like a snake or a small child.
and then there's Atmos, and people who don't even care where they're lying:

In two out of three occasions, they laid on me.

Conversation among my philosophers is key. If you can't hold one, they typically don't want anything to do with you.

Any space, wide or closed, is used for drinking, writing, dreaming, smoking, yelling, fucking and crying. 

Some of them are quiet, and share their thoughts only when they're finally sure you'll understand. 

Unafraid to share their treasures once you've earned their trust. 

Or to be themselves; unashamed. 

They enjoy their lives in the desert that forged them,

made them famous... 

and taught them valuable lessons.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Let Me Suck On Your Kneecap

For my birthday this year I decided I that I wanted everyone in the world to give a shit. Because I'm alive, and that makes me very important. Really, no one in the world is like me. They might look like me, but they aren't. They're imposters and should be shot.

To commemorate this holiday, I invited a very select few women to submit their legs to me for my viewing pleasure. I'm going to keep my word, so the winner is getting a prize, but can we just take a moment to appreciate how good my taste in women actually is?
I'll go down the list of legs and rate them according to the only scale that matters: my erection.

Filtered, bare wall, painted toes. Composition (who the fuck cares? ...shut up, boner.) Muscular, but very feminine.
There is only a small limit to the things I would do to these legs. Certainly wouldn't blow them up. I would however, let Sara strangle me to death with them.

Bare wall, hosary, straight-legged and rotated photo. For as clean as this image is, it makes me feel dirty. Her choice of hosary is really just icing on the cake, which is where I would have Addy sit. Naked. On my cake. With her ankles thrust through my ribcage.

Two words: mirror selfie.
In addition to having a very nice bathroom, her legs are silky. You can just see the silkiness sheening off her calf and down her leg. Definitely would have her oiled up in a mud puddle; which may or may not be overkill, but really, you can't have this one wet enough.

NATURE SHOT. When I think nature, I don't typically think of grass. Not in context of getting pictures sent to my phone, anyway. These legs are playful. Which I don't mind at all.

There's something to be said about tattoos above the knee. It's all good things. Painted nails. Pure white skin. Pure. White. Skin. *adjusts pants*

She gets hot points for the long shot, which show cases the muscles she's gained in squat therapy. There's a kid in the shot, which means she's a family woman, and fingers crossed: house wife.
Lord grant me serenity not to bang your wife, amen.

Typically I'm not so down with super skinny legs, but she doesn't look hungry. She looks thirsty. Which I can help with. Either she's naked or skinny enough to wear those thongs that excuse themselves as short-shorts. Either way, I'd be gentle. Very gentle. As to not snap her caps on accident.

Pure white, baby toys, hopefully another housewife. There's a beauty mark behind her kneecap, which is the second most attractive things since individually packaged condoms. Stating the obvious, these legs are sturdy, most likely able to snap my neck. If given the opportunity, I would let her make me a paraplegic. Bliss.

That's a towel covering her mousse. A towel. Don't even try to tell me that she might be in a bathing suit since this picture is taken in the grass outside. I won't hear it. She's outside because she's a exhibitionist, and she's wearing a towel because her mousse would make a grown man die of need. These legs carry a tattoo on her right inside ankle, and get whiter the higher you travel up the thigh: like my face. She has earned the right to step my face into dirt.

I don't care if that's a skirt or the bottom half of the shortest dress ever made, the sight of these legs alone make me want to travel the slightly tan brick road. Really, she's just adorable. Look at those socks. Ankle socks. ANKLE SOCKS. Oh, right. and a cat. whatever.

There's so much right happening here. Her pants have been taken off, and she left her sports hoody on. This shows me her enjoyment in making me squirm. Tattoo above the knee is immediate initiation into the hottest women alive category. Painted nails means she cares. Bathroom selfie. So much right in this image, so much pleaseletmesmellyourknees in those legs. I'd let her tickle me until I'm dead.

These legs are on a train, which when you think about isn't as common as you think. Ankle socks and lace-up shoes. Not entirely sure if those are shorts, but DO YOU SEE THE FRECKLES. SHE HAS FRECKLES ON HER KNEES. Freckles and beauty marks anywhere near/on a knee is I can't even explain it? It's ridiculously attractive and rare. A+


Socks that bear a team sports logo on women is the reason countries go to holy war. I would. I would wear nothing and charge reckless into an entire army if an entire army is what was keeping me from touching these legs. There is NO LIMIT to the amount of people I would punch in the face to get inches closer to them and if I died or was cut in half within a mile of getting to them, I would use my teeth to crawl the rest of the way.

This woman is sitting on a black leather couch in shorts, with the sun coming in. There are people that pay thousands of dollars to get this kind of image and she just snaps it willy-nilly. If you can just take a moment to look at these--really look at these--you will slowly start to realize why it makes no sense that women aren't all totally fucking each other all the time. Really. I dream of this picture.


       ********CONTEST WINNER**********

There are not enough words in the English language or any other language to describe the feeling a person gets when this type of picture is sent to them for personal approval. No, not this type of picture....just this picture. It came to my Facebook Wall with "Army Strong Legs" as a caption, and for a split full-hearted moment, I considered signing up for the opportunity to be near these.
Her knees have contours I've never seen in my life. Cute, womanly feet; just enough calf, and thighs that would make celibate monk's dick cry. There's a depression in the comforter that makes me wish it was my chest. I literally want to be the furniture in this picture. I want to be her furniture for probably the rest of my natural-born life. Holy shit. Just, holy shit. *slow clap*

To all the women that submitted pictures:
You're all beautiful inspirations to those around you, and you're all my favorite people to look at. Thank you for playing this year and don't feel shy about submitting next year. Trust me, I'd love to see what you have hiding under your pant-legs.
I love you silly beautiful reasons to still be having sex with this gender.
Thanks for playing.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Salt The Water

There comes a time in a woman’s life when she must above all things, realise a limit to her expertise. A percent of women are very good at cooking, others may be skilled in the art of fashion, some are even considered the best chefs in the world. But these women will experience a speed-bump--a self-driven, self-promoting, hateful little fuck up by the name of “that one”.
That One is papa fuck up.
It’s that one thing.
Maybe even, several things at once, that one time.
It embodies different things and takes many forms, all in which are stories you later tell other people; to warn them. They find it funny. They even laugh. But that one time is not a secular issue that you simply persevered. It’s a learning tool from which all of your future decisions to do nothing out of your comfort zone derive. In a single fell movement, it has forced you scared and alone into a box of it’s own design, where you will stay, because even recognizing the pattern that may repeat that one time leaves you sitting on your couch afraid of sounds.

What I’m trying to tell you is that I made soup today. At midnight a couple of days ago I decided I wanted to make an entire chicken. This would have been a good idea if I had a clue how to go about it. After a few Google searches it went in the oven, but I treated the recipe list sort of like a yellow light if I were on crystal. It said 425 degrees, so I totally nailed that. But I get nervous with meat so I kept checking it, letting the heat out. Instead of the hour and a half cook time it took somewhere near three. Either way, the bird was cooked.

Today upon entering the kitchen to look for my remote, I decided that it would be a great idea to make the left over into a soup. As far as I know, they put entire solid things in a pot and stew them for several hours and when served it looks pretty. My day sort of turned out like Investigation Discovery after my mind was made up.

Here’s the recipe for “Red Solo Yolo”:
1 entire chicken
Miso Flavored Ramen Noodles
Leftover Onions From Vietnamese Take Out  
Vietnamese Peanut Sauce
Chili Paste
Canned Potatoes
Canned Mushroom Soup
Chicken Broth

Instructions for cooking:
1. Purchase 1 chicken at Wal-Mart around 12-1a.m.
2. Put chicken in disposable tin. Lather liberally with chili paste, peanut sauce, pepper and salt.
3. Freak out about it’s tail flap thing.
4. Shove about two grips of mixed onions and parsley up it’s ass.
5. Stick it in a 425 degree oven for 1 hour and 30 minutes.
6. Every 15 minutes, open the oven door to make sure it’s cooking.
7. At the third 15th minute, realize there isn’t any oil.
8. Take it out, put something oily on it.
9. Wait another two hours or until skin is nearly black.
10. Serve piping hot to your best friend.
11. Wrap whatever he won’t eat and put in fridge. Wait exactly 2 days. Think of Jesus and his resurrection. This will be the chicken.
12. Get a huge pot from your brothers house, fill ¾ of the way with water while having a phone pressed to your face.
13. Make sure the conversation is both deep and requires your full attention.
14. Remember you oversalted the chicken, so there’s no need for more.
15. Add chicken stock to water, plop in cold chicken.
16. Realize you don’t have a can opener, put the potatoes back.
17. Dump all other canned goods with pop-lids in pot.
18. Wait exactly 3 hours. *during this time you will take the lid on and off to make sure it’s cooking.*
19. Taste it and you will be able to tell it needs more salt.
20. Add 2 packets of Miso Flavored Ramen; literally. Like, add the flavor and noodles and little freeze-dried bits.
21. Wait 30 minutes or until noodles are cooked.
22. Serve by dipping a Red Solo cup in the pot.

In about 30 minutes I’m going to dump the entire thing in the Springfield Lake. This is now that one time I made chicken soup, and probably why I’ll never cook again in my life.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Restart? -->Yes/No

Through a lot of my life I've had to ask a third party about what I've lived; this is because I have a horrible memory. 50 First Dates resembles the somewhat daily routine of what I go through. There are a handful of theories about why I work that way; some people claim it was my early and thoroughly enjoyed alcohol use. Other blame it on one or multiple of the following:

-frequent blows to the head from fights/general clumsiness
-not finding anything outside of my interests memorable
-having the attention span of a contemporary artist in 1983 at a corporate gala
-exposure to tinfoil use outside culinary atrocities
-odd need to smell things regardless of chemical makeup
-same equally important need to touch/punch things that are kawaii/ugly regardless of weight class
-the odd hours i sleep

And for all of those gifts, I'm awarded the right to not remember your name. That's why I nickname you. I probably can't remember your real name. You're not boring or uninteresting, but you probably are honestly, its just I don't care enough. Really. It's not you, it's me. If you're angry, that's okay. Remember that you're not 23 and constantly losing arguments because you forgot what your point was.

Yesterday morning I had this brilliant idea to attempt remembering parts of my past based on the games I was playing at the time. Normally this isn't something I would be thinking about while trying to sleep, but I was shooting for falling asleep counting titles instead of sheep.
All of these should have been books, and to be frankly honest I want them to be, but I didn't have time to read a book in 1998, my live-in maid did.
She was Hispanic so it gave all the characters the best accents. Did you know Peter Rabbit and Mr. McGregor sound like Cheech & Chong? She even elaborated on them by telling me she knew a Flopsey, Mopsey, and Cotton-tail. Said they were all her husband. I didn't get it then, but these days I understand the confusion my classmates had when I tried to tell them Black Beauty was Denzel Washington.

Spyro the Dragon:  Oct 1998
Where I lived: Summerville, Georgia
Why is this game important?
Spyro is a title I tried to play by myself but couldn't manage to play correctly. Uncle Jim would play it instead on nights where it was his job to get me to sleep. This was the game we were playing when I was first introduced to my irrational fear of being struck by lightning, and how it was coincidentally explained to me that it was practically impossible. Uncle Jim taught me to count how many seconds between the flash and thunder while Spyro's dragonfly occasionally buzzed idly. To this day I still freak out during thunderstorms, but now I know how far off God's aim is.

Tarzan Action Game: 1999
Where I lived: Summerville, Georgia
Why is this game important?
This is the second most hated game I've ever owned. It was addictive in the sense that McDonald's can be, and about as good for you. Seriously, if I didn't have anxiety issues before this title, I had it afterwards. Nothing in life or made by the hand of a higher power could or want to craft such a frustrating piece of shit. Only man. Only man would do this. After Uncle Jim and I beat it, we stomped it to death. First time I raged on something.

The Sims: Feb 2000
Where I lived: Tucson, Arizona
Why is this game important?
At the time I was attending a private school that catered to children who didn't fuck around with their super powers. It was like X-Men except we couldn't fly or grow claws unless we took a leap of faith off the jungle gym or taped coffee straws to our knuckles. These were the times of plenty; when my imagination really took off and I met a little boy who altered my perception of people for the rest of my life. He played The Sims, and introduced me to the world of naming your enemies and then killing them in swimming pools very slowly. (One of the expansions for this game is called "Hot Date"; He asked me to be his girlfriend by loading a save where his avatars of him and I were in an endless "woo hoo" session.)
*these were the infamous days of "Sugar Cookies & Coke"*

Darkstone: Evil Reigns: Jan 2001
Where I lived: Tucson, Arizona
Why is this game important?
Because I never beat it. In this era I spent most of my time with a man named Cary who bought me anything under the sun as long as I wasn't mean to him. As a child, I exploited this to a ridiculous proportion and looking back I feel a little bad. He would sit next to me and do paperwork while I played, before I got smart and asked for a new console for my own house. Then he took me to Mexico after school in a convertible, teaching me how to haggle for jewelry. It was the best Tuesday of my life.

Shenmue II: 2003 
Where I lived: Casa Grande, Arizona
Why is this game important?
Shenmue II is the first game my mother ever bought me without asking for it. She went out of her way to pick something out that I would enjoy based on my interests, which was just fucking out of this world for my level of understanding back then. I never managed to beat this one outright; back then you didn't have such easy access to game guides unless you bought them and Shenmue was a pretty understated title. It played like a Chinese version of Grand Theft Auto, except all the roads were written in kanji. The idea of being able to kick the shit out of my enemies gave me a high like no other.

Dead or Alive Extreme Beach Volleyball: Jan 2003
Where I lived: Casa Grande, Arizona
Why is this game important?
In the spring/summer of '03 I stayed with my childhood best-friend, Em. We attended the same school together, ignored homework together, played games together. This one was her brother's I think, and it introduced me to a whole new perspective of sexuality. Those beautiful nanas bounced with each push of a button. Where as I had completely ignored my awkward feelings towards women before, it was around this time I started really looking at the girls around me. 8th grade is interesting for a gringa who isn't shy about wanting to pick up chicks-- and by interesting, I mean I learned to fight and appreciate piano music.  

Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind: 2004
Where I lived: Phoenix, Arizona
Why is this game important?
I didn't know it yet, but this titles and it's expansions would be the ever-constant video game in my life. Anything that happened would occur while I was playing, waiting to play, or installing one of these. For this one in particular, it's a story about moving and my exploration in to exploitation. The year I played this game would be the year I learned to lie, charm, guile, and cheat my way to victory in and out of real life. Also I met a songwriter who was a senior at our high school. He really like me. I really liked his girlfriend. It got weird.

Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion: 2006
Where I lived: Key West, Florida
Why is this game important?
I'll be honest with you, the reasons this game is so integral to my life are too long to list. Like I stated above, the Elder Scrolls series has been a cornerstone since I picked it up. I have bought and sold this game a counted total of 36 times since it's release. Had I kept a singular save file it would have 61,355 hours on it, minus the hours I needed for sleep, eating, flirting and changing my shirts. That's a real number, people. Look it up. I can beat this game in less than three hours, accomplishing 100% storyline, all guilds, and 60% of the sidequests. There is nothing to show for my dedication other than the neat trick I  do where I shut my eyes and navigate out of the first dungeon without looking.

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare: 2007
Where I lived: Phoenix, Arizona
Why is this game important?
Among all of my friends I can honestly say this video game changed my life. I don't mean it as in this game is blow-your-mind-or-your-boyfriend good, but it literally altered what the rest of my years would have been like. I was in a car crash that resulted in the loss of most functions; speaking, walking, writing, etc. Over the course of 8 months this game and a headset gave me back the ability to reason, deduce, have reflexes, and process multiple bits of information at once. I couldn't just press the thumb-stick to make a soldier move, I knew where I was going. Maps were memorized. If you were to ask me about any of the maps today I could tell you anything you needed to know. Eventually I could stand up and vent my frustrations properly. Unfortunately, it left me a couple of gifts I didn't need to keep. The ability to win every hand-eye coordination game in the world, and the skill to memorize a cities road layout after riding through it once. Except Boston. Boston is fucked.

Persona 4: Dec 2008
Where I lived:  Springfield, Missouri
Why is this game important?
At the time Avis and I were living on the graces of a woman who let us sleep in the backroom of her trailer. It was the middle of winter and the woman didn't have anything to give us, so Avis and I cuddled under a towel we found and plugged in the Playstation 2. This is a game I bought before we lost everything and I was determined to hold on to it, but I couldn't give you a reason. We played this and Final Fantasy 10 back-to-back until my brother took us in, where we finished them both in another backroom. It's an excellent game and probably my favorite of all time; not only was it solid, but it kept our minds off the cold and hunger we felt.

Catherine: 2011
Where I lived: Springfield, Missouri
Why is this game important?
First let me key you in; this game is about a guy who is dating a woman named Katherine, while being helplessly pursued by an extremely sexy woman also named Catherine. Throughout the game you deal with puzzles and decide which (K)Catherine you want pursue or stay with. I bought it because I like puzzles. I kept it because I was in the same situation.
Though it didn't help me out and really made me want to just be single for eternity, it does provide perspective on who you are as a general asshole.

Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim: 2011
Where I lived: Springfield, Missouri
Why is this game important?
It didn't really change my life, but a ton of severely important things happened in my life when this game came out. I believe it ushered in a new age for both myself and the video game industry; completely reinventing what we thought were norms. it's the next installment of Elder Scrolls, so at this point I really just duck my head when Bethesda announces things. Fun fact: I saw more drama happen around this game's pause screen than I've seen in 23 years of watching Lifetime, Hallmark, and MTV combined.

Persona 4 Golden: 2012
Where I lived: Mesick, Michigan
Why is this game important? 
PS Vita came out and I bought one before my first semester of college started; I bought it for this title. A remake of the game I played when times were rough, remastered with new missions, new socials, and new bosses. It means more to me than it did originally, now that I realize the coincidence of playing the same title twice while living the same situation twice. Dr. Ashley and I would take turns between Persona and Hot Line Miami before humanities class started, and sometimes during humanities. Those cold winter days during the long trek to campus were made easier in good company with good things to talk about. Anytime it gets cold I think of the good shit that happens when this game is on.

                                                         THE GAME FROM HELL

I HATE this game. This is my #1 most hated game in the history of video games. Everyone should hate this game. Don't even play it to see. Don't give it the time. Tell everyone you know that you hate this game and that the developers should be drugged and made to strip for the money this company theoretically owes you. Monks should grow their hair back in protest against this game. Republicans and Democrats could VOTE UNANIMOUSLY  on the hatred of this game. It's scarred my curiosity towards any title with "metal" or "dungeon" in it for the rest of my life. If I ever see this game I will break it into a thousand shards and use those shards and my blood to summon satan so I can tell him to Godzilla curb stomp the creators of this game. Fuck this game. DON'T EVEN FUCK THIS GAME JUST KNOW THAT YOU HATE IT.

Friday, June 13, 2014

"What is FIFA?"

If you've asked me this question in the last 24 hours, this is for you. There are a lot of you who have asked me this, and because I can't find the cord that goes to my video camera, I'm going to help you out in text.

FIFA according to Wikipedia, stands for "International Federation of Association Football". But it's a French term and they just have to go messing with shit, so to everyone else it's "Fédération Internationale de Football Association".
What it means is every FOUR years, all of the nations on the ENTIRE PLANET go against each other for the World Cup. It's kind of a huge deal.

In the last ten seconds it's taken me to write that out I've decided it'll be much easier if I make an FAQ. For those of you who have no idea what an FAQ is, please get off the internet and never come back.

Does America have a National Team?
Yes we do. Handpicked and tirelessly trained for the right to reach for the Gods. They have a handful of fans, too. So you know they're legitimate. 

Why should I care about some stupid soccer game? 
Wanting to murder your ignorant soul aside, you should care about the fact that FIFA represents and actively fights for world peace and to end racism. On the first match of FIFA every four years, they release white doves in to the sky to signify peace and tolerance.
Secondly, these are entire countries kicking a ball with each other. That means Israelites and Palestinians get on a god damn field of grass, shake hands, help each other off the ground if they get hurt, and actually apologize when they foul unintentionally.
Imagine eleven members of the KKK in a friendly competition with eleven members of the Black Panthers; or eleven Muslims shaking hands and helping up eleven of the most Christian of Christians.

Why is it called football? Only American's have football. 
No. You have "hand ball" and "pigskin". "Football" is a game using a spherical ball that touches the foot 80% of the time. No hands, gripping, holding, or clutching is involved in the least.
So it's probably called football because it's a ball game that you play with your feet and legs. 
Just a guess.  

Why aren't the top scoring teams American? 
Probably because you look at soccer players like they're sissies; ignoring the fact they run for 90 minutes non-stop and aren't exclusively trained in arid/humid oxygenated environments. The same reason you don't think Rugby is more hardcore than American Football. Please don't get me started on that.
If your country doesn't care, typically you don't. It's not made as obvious to you via advertising, news, or culture.
--and you're a bunch of narcissistic pricks.

Why is all of this important to other people?
It's the cultural equivalent of seeing Halley's comet. For most countries, winning or being a part of something like FIFA's World Cup is an honor on it's own; excluding the fact that hosting or even participating in the event can shed light on other countries current status. As a country too poor to call for help, showing that you can be part of a team and work together even when times are really hard helps fan the flames of change and notoriety.

Now, please. Even if you can't find it in yourself to give a flying fuck about soccer, take a good look at what this event means in the larger picture, and stop pretending it's just some European ridiculousness. Because I hate practically every single one of you on a daily basis. Stop making it easy. 

Thursday, June 12, 2014

I Bit My Tongue

Some people are just odd. They can help it, or someone can help them, but typically they refuse help in all capacities. Personally, I forget 80% of what I do as soon as it's done so asking for help is pointless.
Which is why you're here, blog.

I'm sitting here listening to the camper vibrate from King's snores and thinking about all the shit I used to believe in. It started with sound barriers, for those of you wondering what the hell I'm talking about. I used to believe sound barriers were barriers, and when you hit them at fast speeds you'd stretch it out and it would shoot you back like some condom sling-shot thing. So King was snoring and it got me on the topic.
Why not list the rest of what I can remember?

1. PC monitors were just one huge camera. Anyone could see you at anytime.
This started in the era when AOL would still mail you discs of their latest version. At the time my mother had an inter-work communication feature that used AOL as a informative source between colleagues. While she slept through the day to prepare for night-shift, I would change her avatar to a picture of Jessica Alba and hit the information highway to look for porn and chat rooms.
When the movie Honey (Jessica Alba; 2003) came out, the jig was up, but not before a man I'd been role-playing with traced my IP address to where I lived. I didn't know all of that yet.
I log on without realizing Hollywood had fucked me, and start chatting with him. He asks what I'm wearing, but before I can answer, he says "Don't tell me, I know." and proceeds to list the exact pattern, size, and shade of my underwear. My first thought was psychic; my second was to toss the monitor on the floor.
He then knocked on my door and upon seeing how old I was, gave me a very real verbal lesson on how not to fuck with people online.
Let's talk more about how that could have gone worse.

2. I was cast in an elaborate rendition of one girls life and it was my job to do her character justice.
There's a time in every person's life where they ask themselves, "This can't be real, can it?" and that time can be anywhere from a car crash to having it rain after you spent $6 at a shitty car wash. A lot to do with cars. Cars and sex seem to be the opposition to happy and not complicated. Anyway, without going in to too much detail, I've lived twenty-three years and I've seen some shit. Stranger-than-fiction/non-fiction life kind of shit. I honestly believed I was stuck in the lead role of the shittiest documentary ever. It felt like the working conditions on The Wizard of Oz set and had the production value of Tommy Wassau's The Room.
The drawbacks of this kind of thinking is that this wasn't the god damn Truman Show; this was real people with real lives and I couldn't tell the difference. It was a drama/comedy/thriller of bullshit.
I would speak to people as though my every word was being studied by some off-screen director. What other folks consider "acting out" was my idea of taking a break in my specified trailer. To this day, I still make jokes and fuck with people as though we've been filming all day and we should all just let off some steam.
I've since learned that I'm not in a documentary at all, and that fact has both killed me and given me a high like you couldn't imagine.

3. Jumanji is real and I'm going to find it at a Goodwill in Montana. 
Okay, so maybe not the Jumanji board game, but I still believe in a mystical board game that's going to trap me inside it for a totally reasonable 30 years before letting me loose on then-modern day where ever the hell I am. This is a personal belief that will never die, so it doesn't really belong on this list at all. Specifically, it's going to be found at a Goodwill in Montana and by deduction be called something innocuous like Home on the Range or How to Train Your Immigrant Amish.

4. "Colored Folks" were the drawings you were forced to Crayola, and it was wrong to do.
I accidentally spent some time in a sweet, sleepy town somewhere in backwoods Georgia circa 1999. This was the first time I was introduced to racism, and I didn't understand what all the fuss was about. For a nine year old, I understood the basic concepts: racists were people of a certain tint that didn't like other people of a certain tint and they really hated people who mixed their pant pallets.
In art class, we were told to draw things. All kinds of things. Like most of my classmates, I drew people. Imagination is both your friend and enemy as a child, so I believed that my drawings were things that could live; among my dolls and figurines that would get up and walk around while I was asleep.
The trick to this shit was the teacher wanted us to color them in. This is where racism blurred for me and I lost it completely.
She gave me a few bad grades in a row and I couldn't understand why. So I asked her.
"You have to color them in. That's the assignment." I remember looking down at my oblong sketch and asking it if it wanted to be colored. It said no. I told my teacher that. She sent me to the counselors office where I was told to accept people of all colors.
"I accept them, but they don't want to be colored." Well all of this shit was too confusing to handle so from then on I covered their eyes with my left hand and colored them EVERY color with my right. They hated it. I know they did, and that's why I suck at drawing in adulthood.

The list can get very long, so to shorten it up a bit. Also it's 4am and FIFA 14' starts today. That's more important than you. I used to believe these things. If you'd like to know the origin behind any of these, ask me. Or don't. This is the internet. Go check your Facebook. Why are you even here? I mean really.

5. Children's songs were summoning spells for boys. 

6. Swing-sets were failed attempts to put man in the sky, kept from the prehistoric era.

7. The "Can You Hear Me Now" Verizon Guy was actually a Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor checking up on his patient; which is why he's always so happy yet surprised to see a camera following him. 

8. "Don't Wake Daddy!" is the story of Jesus's resurrection through the eyes of an exchange student. 

9. When you put on your shoes, the Chinese person who made them sneezes and that's why they all wear masks. 

10. All of our best friends are figments of our imagination that we've kept from childhood. 

11. "Chapstick" was invented by the British after a stick-carrying man addressed a paperboy as "Chap" and smoothly talked him out of his newsstand. (smooth lips: chapstick. I don't know, okay?)  

12. A "remote controller" is a noun that can alter the alertness or determination of another noun.

13. We were all put on this planet in the 1800's. Any history pre-dating that was written by three guys in a basement playing Dungeons & Dragons with loaded dice. 

14. City-building or managerial video games were first introduced to the military to as a sort of lottery: the person to best rule their country/build a long lasting city won the right to be president. (This was later made a nation wide lottery with the spread of video game interest.) Voting was actually a play they put on to celebrate the newcomer. Like a birthday party for success. 

15. The Japanese survived on Iwo-Jima for so long because they had already invented instant ramen noodles. Dirty or sulfuric water wasn't a problem after they boiled it to re-hydrate the noodles. 

16. "Ash Wednesday" is actually a holiday where every Catholic marks their forehead to emulate Ash's baseball cap from Pokemon. His successes in leading his team to victories across hundreds of gyms makes him an ideal candidate for Catholic Sainthood.

17. If you can't remember someone's name, it's because they're someone's best friend and they ditched them to hang out with you. (See #10)

18. "It's just on the tip of my tongue" is an indicator you should clap both hands over your mouth and swallow. There is no other definition. 

19. "Amazing Grace" was 1779's "Never Gonna Give You Up"; everyone hated it, but there were people that would trick you in to singing it. To date, it's the longest joke in history. 

20. They're are genuine "worker ants" in society; they have no personality and are alive solely to function on an economic level. 

                                                           This is what I look like in drag.
                                                           You're welcome, Jimmy Hoffa.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Sufjan Sufferin' (Part Two)

Have you ever written a word down and it just looks wrong?
"Old English twa "two," fem. and neuter form of twegen "two"." 

It's 4:11am; I can't handle this shit.
Anyway, I promised the internet I would tell them the other half of the story. You know how the internet gets when you wait too long. finds all those things you didn't want to share and shares them.
Because it's rude. 
"rude (adj.)
late 13c., "coarse, rough" (of surfaces), from Old French ruide (13c.) or directly from Latin rudis "rough, crude, unlearned," perhaps related to rudus "rubble." Sense of "ill-mannered, uncultured; uneducated, uncultured" is from mid-14c. Rude boy (also rudie, for short) in Jamaican slang is attested from 1967. Figurative phrase rude awakening is attested from 1895."

Where did that last post end? Oh yeah. 
So I'm a piece of shit, right? Right. 
and I decided I wanted to visit a very talkative ginger in Chicago, right? Of course, Lucky. 
and I took King too, didn't I? Yes. Yes you did. 
Thank you, me. 

After packing  in two days, moving in to the back of a bar, arranging mail changes and finding my bra among seven or eight piles of dirty clothes, I decided to get on a Greyhound. Nardo invited me to Springfield because he's completely insane. He claimed proudly that he had set a schedule out for us to have the "maximum amount of fun for as long as you want", which is Nardo speak for he's fucking insane. An example of "maximum fun" (replicated, recovered and on loan from my trashcan): 
-Lake House
-Trading Card Game Tournament
-Table-top RPG time with complete strangers 
-Pick up sexer of cars leet 
Wait. Coors. A sixer of Coors Light. That was my lunch. Nevermind. This is why I don't work in offices. 

I arrive punctually late and smelly; perfect time for dining, according to Nardo. He decides on Korean, but they're closed. It's a Monday. It's a Korean restaurant closed on Monday. I want you to read that sentence three or four more times, because it's true. In general, it's true. They're always closed on Monday's and I'm not going to Google it. I respect their magic. 
Because of allergies, I had developed this really disgusting sinus thing that got worse on the bus, so by the time he decided on Indian I was pretty thankful. Still couldn't taste it to save my life, but I could smell the entire way back to his house. To a detriment. 

--Does that happen to everybody? You get all stopped up in the face and want desperately to smell something or breathe and you just can't? It makes all your favorite foods just feel like normal not blessed-by-your-personal-taste. Like a brick of normal stupid shit filling your stomach and not in the least what you wanted. 
I really feel like we put more faith in our favorite foods to save us than we do in other more tangible things like dildos or chicken wire. How many of you have literally thought that (enter food here) would "clear your sinuses" or "make you feel better" and it just makes you feel like a fat lard? A full, fat, angry because you-wasted-your-favorite-food asshole who is more pissed than you started. 
--or worse something makes you able to smell and your tires just happen to be gnawing on a skunk carcass or driving through America's longest cow pasture. 

Nardo took me kayaking, to a lake house where I got to sleep on a fancy bed (much different from my bed, that's why it's called vacation), to a table-top game where I met folks who fed my ego, and I even got beer! It was really good. Minus that one time I beat him at a bike race and he was a bitch about it. Or, uh, having to be separated from his brother for attempting to kill him with my hands. Other than that, this Agent received perfect treatment. I advise my handlers to investigate this area for possible agent nesting resource. 

We aren't here for that part. We're here for Chicago. 
We'll call her Pelotero. Pelo for short. 
We drove to meet up with Pelo in Chicago because it was on our way back to Michigan, and she was there on her own vacation purposes. I had been talking to her on the phone and realized instantaneously that she was me from when I was 16 and gave a shit about life, women, and happiness. The good, the bad, the ginger. I've always wanted to meet myself, because I told myself that if I did, I would play a game with myself. I'd hate that. 
--to be fair, she's her own person. to be more fair, we're too alike. 

She wants us to meet her at her bestfriend's birthday dinner. This would be less funny if I hadn't thought changing my pants was going to make a difference. So King and I walk in there to this: 

                                  Looking like this: 

Except fatter with dirty feet plastered to cheap plastic sandals. I'm pretty sure there's a blog entry floating around the internet posted by a Chicago native, strictly on what they saw that day. Just a horrified blurb on why they hate certain parts of the city. Our dirty, cheap, feet. Crossed under the table for posterity. 
But for you avid readers of this blog, you'll know I've put myself in losing situations before. Remember when I drank 12 beers and didn't shit for a week before going to Arkansas? God, that was fun. That's when I punched that poster board guy. 

Pelo tells me my choice of sushi is basic. Which is exactly what I'd say to myself to piss myself off enough to order things I can't pronounce. +1 to House Pelo. 
When it came, I ate that shit. +1 to Lucky 
She told me I didn't have to eat it if I didn't want to. -1 to House Pelo. 
I ate it anyway. +1 to Lucky. 
She orders my favorite beer in the entire world. +2 to House Pelo. 
I drink it. -1 to Lucky. 
...and King's. -1 to Lucky. 
...and their wine. -1 to Lucky. 
....and whatever else I could find. -1 to Lucky. 

I'm half-cocked while we walk back to her best friend's apartment, realizing that the city looks different through a mirage. It looks somehow better, but that could have been the fact that 90% of Chicago is windows and I was drunk enough to think I looked okay. Score is 2 Pelo; -4 Lucky. 

Pelo's got this complex where she wants to be top-dog because she entirely too short to be seriously intimidating. That could be me though; short people are just too cute. Like little Chihuahuas. With something like that on your shoulders, your mind game has to be sharp and hard. 

Okay, I'll be honest. All I entirely remember of that night was watching people sing at a karaoke bar. I complemented every beard I saw, hugged people I didn't know, mixed dark and light alcohols, and tried to tell a homeless man the story of my people. In my drunk mind that means I was going to give him the change in my pocket if he opened his eyes long enough for me to say my name. 
At one point, I was fully dedicated to taking a drunk woman back to her loft so she could use my knees to snort blow. Which would have been the full experience for me if Pelo and King hadn't pulled me away.  

Turns out, I'm actually really good at spoons. 

Fell asleep on my face in a pile of strange clothes to the sweet sounds of other people retching in acoustic areas of the most beautiful apartment I've ever seen. 
I couldn't keep score because I couldn't count beyond "one" at some point in that night.

Agent 246 would like to footnote and say all government funds were appropriated respectfully, and in no way used for booze or smokes or that girls blow that she never snorted off my pants.