dart league

i quit my 2nd job and joined a dart league. this gives me a reason to not think about my thesis, to drink some beer and throw sharp objects. Also, i kinda wanted some more friends. Sorry if this post sounds too much like that melodramtic postcard confession website. that was not the point (get it? point! oh my!).

Lynyrd Skynyrd

Man, I wish I loved Lynyrd Skynyrd as much as the assholes upstairs do. Cause if I did, maybe at one in the morning on a week night, instead of being ornery while trying to read dense lit theory texts, I could just sing along to "Mr. Saturday Night Special" while I drink Keystone Light and teabag my roommates.


free bird!!

my fucking truck

i have been driving the same 4 cylinder son'a'bitchin truck for 6 years, bought it very used; it was/is my first vehicle. it is not very well. it is like the old green and yellow john deere tractor your grandpa has almost buried under the grass in his back 40: it runs like a champ if you can only get the muther fucker started. before noon today, i had to jump my s.o.b'ing truck 3 times. 5 times before i was settled in for the night, with canadian mist and soda water nonetheless (also your grandfather's drink). luckily, the other day i bought an emergency battery starter from walmart ($34.99). i blame the truck 85%, i blame the weather 15% (it is -9 degrees now, and we have the fortunate chance of a high at -1 tomorrow, superbowl sunday). thank god for apartments with heat included.

i must be too close to the magnetic field

in the past few months, i've had 2 laptops crash, one with all my writing, the other with all my music. and then my ipod crashed. My laptop was back up for most of my music-the ipod was my primary source. Then, this night happened: i was a little frustrated to begin with. Nothing major, just, i guess, my disposition for a day like today: snowy, absolutely beautiful out, and just felt very stuck reading overwritten essays on theory and wanting to be 12 and sledding or drinking baileys and coffee after cross-country skiing with my dad. but while i was selling my plasma this morning, i got a call from some of my parent’s friends who were in town visiting family. they brought up my hiking boots that i left at home over christmas. I got directions and was invited to a cocktail hour at their home. so my wife and i went and there were a lot of people i didn't know but they were drunkingly offering landscaping positions to me for the summer, so i stayed for a couple drinks. the women were drinking a lot of vodka. After what meant to be a hiking boot pickup turned into a 5 ½ hour dinner event, i went home Details from the event: fishing and hunting stories, getting a whiskey buzz, giving up the buzz so I could drive home, more hunting and fishing stories and then lectures by drunks of how to drink responsibly, then an obligation to stay for dinner. when I got home, i only wanted a few beers, a chew and, being too killed-buzz-headachy to read, a little video game football. Well, the playstation quit working. i wasn't too terribly upset cause my brother sent up a stand up comedy dvd that i thought i'd watch instead. thats when i realized that the playstation would no longer read dvds, either. However, along with the comedy dvd, he sent a vhs tape of an anticipated ufc fight that he bought and recorded off pay per view. i thought, "well, no video games, no comedy; no-rules authentic fighting seems like the next logical step." well, the vhs tape did not record and the only thing on the tape was an old taped-off-tv-version of dirty dancing. im convinced that if you think your pissy night cant get any worse, you're wrong. If you throw patrick swayzee in tight clothes into the mix, your evening will get worst.

so now, i'm gonna sit here now in the dark and concentrate on my headache. i may create a nickelback radio station on pandora and listen to it ridiculously fuckin loud to enhance the experience. and then try to commit half page long overwritten sentences from my theory book to memory. i'll do this all with very dim lighting in order to strain my eyes to the point of blindness. then, i may shove a q-tip up my pee hole and jerk off till i shoot it out into my blind eyes.

enjoy your evening, too.

change

One of the toughest things I’m experiencing now is co-existing with someone who knows me so well that their expectations keep me from changing.

after work

i scoured the place:
an empty soft pack of camels, little debbie brownie wrappers, cut-up school brochures, notebook paper, a bottle of hand sanitizer, gum, 1/2 a can of strawberry soda, pieces of wax, half pencils, broken pieces of metal, earrings, suckers, condom wrappers, kleenex wads, frayed pieces of wool, etc.
i put it, dust and all, in a box and threw it in a dumpster.
and all the while, i couldn't stop thinking about the shit-smelling people who made the mess for me, who walked through and left behind what they didn't want, hoping against hope that no one would ever do the same thing to them. i couldn't stop thinking about their fat faces and the way they'd stumble up the steps to the door, weighed down by their own skin and an inability to metabolize half their diets. i thought of their ugliness and their mean spirits, walking past me, all uppity, haughty, hoity-toity, ignorant and so far from bliss even they could sense it.
i fucking hate cleaning up after people, after folks who probably keep their own homes spotless. or don't. who fucking cares? stop leaving your shit for me to sweep up, you toads.
i'm turning into a misanthrope - hateful and suspicious from my spinning head down to my freezing toes.
i'm turning into a curmudgeon, and i'm not yet 30.
people i don't even know are ruining my days, and i am letting them.
the insurance is nice though.

according to bob boilen, paul mccartney was 27 when the beatles broke up. WHEN THEY BROKE UP!! i'm 27, now. what the fuck have i done? and when i do it, what the fuck will it mean knowing that paul was 27 when the beatles broke up? Im gonna read something i do not want to read for the rest of the afternoon, then sit in class and listen to people talk about symbolism and compare the story to their own tragic life because their parents were divorced during their impressionable years. when class is done, i'll drive around listening to helter skelter, and let the frustration peak at the top of the slide before i sit down to read some more, letting it out and down. i don't blame you paul. you were doing me a favor.