| People should know how bad I feel. |
[Mar. 15th, 2008|03:06 am] |
I'm generally in decent shape. An emoticon describing my shape would be the one with the smile and sunglasses, pretty much all the time. But tonight it would be the one with a bunch of snot and such in its nose and an incredible headache. You know the one. This is not the emoticon to be, no matter how cool it looks. I wouldn't even use the damn thing after tonight, so as not to jinx myself. Imagine how silly you'd feel after instant messaging a friend and using a symbol that means you have AIDS as a joke. Then you get AIDS and you feel like a tool. What the fuck is wrong with you? I wouldn't be so mean as to say you'd deserve it, but you sure as hell would, asshole.
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| Goals this year: |
[Jan. 20th, 2008|10:07 pm] |
1. Create a decent website for myself.
2. Gain some semblance of financial security.
3. Make my home more home-like. Home to a human.
4. Quit meth.
5. Buy a guitar and write a bunch of songs to tell people about all the great times I had while on meth. |
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| How To Get To Heaven |
[Oct. 17th, 2007|10:15 pm] |
After a hard day's work, I feel drained both physically and emotionally. Little is left of my personage but a battered shell of a man - a wreck. I walk to my car, my tie loosened and my dress shirt untucked. Only the promise of a decent meal and readily available pornography keeps me from jumping from a tall building to a screaming early death. This is the case almost every day I go to work, or at least it was. Things have changed now that I've found this under my windshield wiper:
How To Get To Heaven is just what it looks like - a step-by-step guide to getting the afterlife you've always wanted since your parents explained to you how dying works. But it's also much more than that. It has pictures, too. Kid friendly and adorable, these pictures could easily belong to an uproarious newspaper comic strip like Fred Basset or Blondie, but it's clear that they have a much higher purpose like Doonesbury.
Much like myself, God writes under a pen name - King James whereas I use Millionaire Mike. Another similarity between his writing style and mine is that he scrawls single sentences across multiple pages in enormous Comic Sans lettering. It's these first two panels that we learn that The Bible is God's law, and that it's perfectly flawless in every which way. How To Get To Heaven assumes the reader is familiar with the concept of an all-knowing God, but for some reason believes we don't know he has a book out.
To recap so far: God's great, has a book, it's a book of rules, follow the rules or it's a sin. But how bad could it be if one commits a sin?
Ohhh, shit. It looks like sinners will be "turned into hell" as though they've been redirected by the friendly neighborhood traffic cop of the afterlife. That's bad news, as "hell is a place where fire is." We learn this while trying to ignore that our guide to a proper existence ends sentences with prepositions. I think that's a punch I can roll with, though, as I end sentences with prepositions all the time for.
Panel Four up there offers a glimmer of hope but them immediately slaps it back down, right in the face. Every person in this realm is a big fat disappointment to their creator, no matter what. If this pamphlet were a television show, that bit of information would be an act break.
Panel Five reveals that Jesus and God have a sort of good cop bad cop thing happening. God is royally pissed that you're not doing things The God Way, but Jesus loves you anyway. He's your buddy - the cool teacher with sneakers who lets you do wacky science experiments in class instead of pushing bookwork. But you still can't slack off too much or you'll get that D- and you're going straight to hell.
So without going into too much (any) detail, Panel Six begins to describe how Jesus went out of his way to do this pain in the ass favor for you not to get pounded by his dad. Looks like you're going to owe Jesus big.
Post-Mystery Death Jesus is buried, but just a few days later he gets up and announces "I am alive for evermore," all with a magician's confidence. To me this is kind of cheap because he seems to have all of this planned out in advance, aware of his own gifts. If I lend you a few hundred dollars, that's a pretty great favor, but if I have an infinite money generator, it becomes something less than that. But still, I guess he could have just coasted by and let his dad flood the daylights out of us or whatever. For that reason I "believe on the Lord Jesus Christ." All over him.
It took me a while to figure out what Panel Nine was trying to tell me. It makes double use of the word "ye," and it seemed to be finishing an idea that wasn't started elsewhere. But in spite of these flaws, it is by far my favorite part of the pamphlet thanks to the illustration. Our everyman and everywoman appear to be confronted by a fellow ten-year-old trying his damnedest to get them to smoke a cigarette with him. He does so with such vigor, and such malice as to suggest a pretty serious mental problem. This young man is a deranged young party animal, and it's sad to think he might know the searing kiss of Satan's hellfire before he gets chest hair. Even so, all he has to do is keep The Lord on speed dial, and he shall be saved. It's that easy.
To wrap things up nicely, the illustrator drew a bow. But we're still left to make a decision - and put our money where our mouth is by filling out a form and sending away to prove that we've taken Jesus into our hearts and so forth. If not, you'll never go to heaven and marvel at their decidedly box-like structures. |
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| Halloween Help for Women. |
[Oct. 8th, 2007|11:10 pm] |
Choosing a Halloween costume is always a difficult process, but I thought I would help out the ladies with a page from Party City's catalog. I've taken the liberty of circling the more overtly sexual entries:
It's more than a little strange to see three or four pages comprising the Adult Women's section of the catalog almost entirely made up of "The Sexy Witch," or "The Sexy Nurse," or other occupations that boggle the mind as to how the hell they could be erotic. "The Naughty Referee hangs out on the 69 yard line and likes to blow more than her whistle if you know what I mean heh heh hyeh." If you want to look like a Foot Locker employee in hot pants, you are set. If you want to dress as an adorable bumble bee, but still be totally fuckable, you too are set. But if you want a fanciful, creative costume that doesn't necessarily show off your ass, you're more or less screwed. |
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| Misha. |
[Sep. 1st, 2007|11:48 am] |
In principal I do not mind sharing a bathroom with you. It's not the most desirable situation, to share a bathroom with another man, but we're both stuck with the non-master bedrooms of this home. These are the cards we've been dealt.
The initial cleaning and organization, as horrific as it may have been, was necessary and I didn't mind taking the initiative and making that bathroom usable for more than fruit flies and mosquitoes. If I may say so, all I recall you doing upon my arrival to this apartment in regards to bettering that bathroom is taking the occasional shit. You could argue that taking these shits was a boost to morale, proving that human beings were already making use of this festering mound of dust, mold and unidentifiable hygiene products. But that would be pushing it.
The counters are once again littered with your possessions. I bought an overpriced medicine cabinet to house these possessions, yet they're still everywhere. I couldn't so much as lay my clothing on that counter to take a shower without rearranging your stuff. Also, laying by the tub is a small pile of washcloths you said you had used to exfoliate your skin. This means I cannot touch them, Misha. They smell disgusting and I would very much like them gone.
If the counter can be cleared and those washcloths removed, I would gladly resume being the only one to regularly remove soap scum and mold from that godforsaken hellhole in which we clean ourselves. The other outcome is that, with mallet in hand, I will clamp your jaw around the toilet bowl and bash the top of your head down like I'm playing the Strongman booth at the fair. |
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| An update on my drive home from work. |
[Aug. 7th, 2007|09:41 pm] |
Everyone jokes about the elderly driving slowly and turning their blinker on several blocks too early, but it stops being funny when they're shirtless and on a motorcycle.
Watching that man's back hair was like seeing a field of grain swaying in the wind, only the grain is patchy and gray.
Plus there are three or four parts towards the bottom where that field sort of folds into itself, creating the appearance of peach colored rolls of Play-Doh that have fallen behind the dryer. |
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| Feeling hot, hot, really fucking hot. |
[Aug. 5th, 2007|07:15 pm] |
My air conditioning is out, leaving me a sweaty, delirious man wearing only a t-shirt and underwear, sifting through pictures like this:
When I was younger I had nightmares about the type of person I've become. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 5th, 2007|01:26 am] |
can't breathet
need air
conditioning
head throbbing
need sleep
life all but ruined
can't stop
sweating
SWE$TINT |
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| I can't stop having sex with beautiful women. |
[Jul. 23rd, 2007|08:44 pm] |
I just spent the past hour and a half digging out my ingrown toenail, the reason being that I will soon depart to New York City. My lady and I will be doing a lot of walking there, so I don't need the constant dull pain in my big toe to be magnified by all the action. Right now it looks like my foot is menstruating, which I hope isn't true by the time we leave, but the worst is over. I'm now in no pain whatsoever. I am prepared.
Or my foot is.
We'll pack tomorrow, and get a few last-minute things at Wal-Mart. I need a watch with a compass in it, so I can know which way is North. This would provide an inordinate amount of comfort to me, seeing as how I'll be as far away from home as I've ever been. I also need to buy a gun to fend off muggers, who may already have guns, so I may be forced to invest in some sort of double gun. We need not be outdone, the stakes are too high. I'm bringing well over fifteen dollars in quarters with me.
I'm also concerned about people sifting through my luggage. I don't know how many guys wear boxer briefs like I do, but if some boxer wearing security guard calls me a faggot for what I've packed, it would be a hefty blow to my self esteem. Maybe I'll pick up some really manly underwear at Wal-Mart as well. Something with spikes or a pro wrestler on them. Then we'll see what that hypothetical security guard has to say about my would-be underwear when and if my luggage is inspected. |
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| Sexual Heaving. |
[Jun. 8th, 2007|09:35 pm] |
One of my coworkers is a sixty-five-year-old mentally handicapped guy named Tommy. I used to work pretty closely with him when I was a dishwasher, but now I'm in another department and we don't see each other much. He's always been really nice, and I appreciate that from anyone. I know if I were handicapped, I'd be pretty pissed all the time. Though if it were a mental affliction, who knows if I'd even be aware of it. Hell, I could really be mentally handicapped and everyone has just been polite to me by not mentioning it all my life. It's possible. I do know that I've been struggling to think of synonymous terms for "mentally handicapped" and coming up blank, so maybe there is something wrong with my brain that I've never realized. How unusual would that be, reading an entry by someone who's mentally handicapped, and they're calling other people mentally handicapped on their internet diary? And maybe I'm not even posting this online, I could be typing into an open drawer of my nightstand, gazing into my alarm clock and imagining an internet that isn't there.
That would be fucked up, but it's not the point of this post.
Tommy retires in about a month. I know this because he reminds me every time I see him. He always announces the end of his professional life with a big grin on his face, which is usually infectious until I stop living through him momentarily and realize that I'm jealous of an elderly bald guy who smells like soap. But my desire to do almost literally nothing for the rest of my life is my problem, not his, so I'm decidedly happy for him. I was discussing this fact with my manager today, who informed me that there was going to be a big retirement party for him on his last day, which I thought was great because he had been with the company for over ten years of his life. Besides the basic functions necessary to keep me alive, like breathing, I can't think of anything I've done on an almost daily basis for more than ten years. Besides masturbation, I suppose. But the day I stop masturbating, there won't be a big party with a cake and stuff to make me feel appreciated for all my hard work. Not that I'm fishing for one. You could surprise me with a party like that, but I really wouldn't be all that saddened if nothing happened, it's alright.
A masturbation party would be fucked up, but it's also not the point of this post.
Once our discussion of Tommy's retirement party wound down, my manager paused briefly. She then lit up with a smile and quietly asked, "Do you want to know something?" Always looking for at least one decent goddamn thing to know, I quietly said "Sure." She told me that once, a very long time ago - after about one year into Tommy's employ here - Tommy's brother was coming to visit him at work. Tommy excitedly told everyone that he was coming, and when he told my manager, he went into detail describing his relationship with his brother. Apparently, Tommy lives with him and pitches in by doing the laundry and other assorted chores, and more or less lives rent free. His brother handles his money and puts it into a savings account or some such, and aside from the decreased privacy, everyone more or less benefits. But this is all just backstory for what my manager then told me. "Tommy said that his brother even got him girls." I must have looked puzzled, so my manager continued with "And I asked Tommy what he meant by that, and he suddenly got really shy and giggly. I said, 'You mean for sex, Tommy?' and he nodded and said 'Mm hmmm.' "
A man hiring a prostitute for his fifty-five-year-old mentally handicapped brother is the point of this post.
Before my innards could tear away from my skin and sprint home, I made sure I understood. And according to my manager's account of what Tommy said, his brother had paid for his professional sexification. I didn't know what to think then, I don't know what to think now, and I really have zero interest of pondering the morality of the issue. It was almost a decade ago when this occurred, I heard about it today, and it just gave me the heebee-jeebees like no heebee has ever jeebeed. I was rattled, and I've stayed rattled. So my logic at this point is that maybe if I post this situation online, I will have somehow cleansed my mind of it by possibly implanting it into the mind of others, much like The Ring. This way I won't go mad and start updating my internet diary from a sock drawer. |
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| I create my own stress. |
[May. 25th, 2007|11:20 pm] |
The neighborhood I travel through to get home is pleasant. There are trees lining the sides of the road providing much shade, the houses are well kept, and the lawns are free of gnomes, wind mills, and the other sorts of things people put in front of their homes to make them look like a dutch acid trip. But there's a problem - it's the running ground for the high school track team. I cannot get through without seeing a troupe of shirtless high school guys running past my vehicle, and it makes me feel both homophobic and gay.
Upon seeing them, I can't just out and out look, because it would seem that I like what I see. I can't avoid looking at them altogether, because it would seem that I like what I would see, but I'm paranoid about being called out on being a superqueer creampuff homofag. From, I guess, one of the sweaty shirtless guys jogging no less than two inches away from the other sweaty shirtless guys. So I'm kept wondering on how I should compose myself, inside of my vehicle, for about fifteen seconds every day.
I basically have two routes I can take - The first being that I act like an adult and not worry about it, arrive home, and go see my girlfriend for some old fashioned penis-in-vagina eroticism. The second, I confront the situation directly, grabbing the homosexual bull by its tasseled, multicolored horns. As the runners near my vehicle I can slow down, lower my window and shout that they don't scare me, or turn me on. Their puzzled looks would ease into expressions of understanding as they high five both me and each other. Then they'd all pile into my car and we'd go out for drinks and have sex. Wuh-oh, looks like I really am gay after all. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 17th, 2007|12:19 am] |
I've decided I'm going to make it big in Hollywood and write a screenplay. I've seen enough garbage in movie theaters to know that any idiot can fling an assortment of almost random words onto a page, sell it for millions of dollars, and walk away counting their wads of cash. Assuming studios pay in wads of cash, as they have in every fantasy I've had about them thus far.
I've already taken my first step, purchasing the one thing I need to get a leg up:
For the unaccustomed, that's a book. And like every other book with ugly yellow backing and goofy lettering on the front, it's a For Dummies publication, meaning it's my kind of book. No fancy words to muck up one's perception of one's own vocabulary. I should point out that "vocabulary" is one of the longest words I know.
An interesting thing I've learned from the book already is to use powerful language as often as possible. Whenever I can, I need to begin sentences with definitive lines like "this time," and end sentences with things like "ever again."
Example: "This time I'm going to save those hostages ever again."
Another purchase to help me along in the writing process is this writing hat:
It's like a regular hat, only I think it makes me look more like a writer. Or a detective, which, as I've stated before, is also more than acceptable. And as a bonus, it's bound to be worth a lot of money once I'm famous. Hollywood memorabilia sells for a lot online, as people would just love to cause all sorts of mischief with an actual Gremlin, or to beat someone to death with the actual Breakfast Club.
So stay tuned for future dispatches from my rocket to stardom, or some such nonsense. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 18th, 2007|12:48 am] |
Several months ago I moved from my home of over ten years. Much of my time there was spent keeping my mom from throwing away the things I love and looking at dirty websites while she wasn't around. The former left a bounty of childhood possessions in my hands, while the latter left my hands filled with shame. Shame and my penis.
As little as two weeks before departing from that place, I had retained a giant box full of my old toys, a few articles of clothing from my awkward phase(s), and a plastic container holding a number of trading cards. Most of these cards I could do without, but some meant the world to me. The contents of the box were as follows:
1. Over a hundred basketball cards.
2. The inside sleeve of the Batman soundtrack on cassette.
3. An incomplete set of Terminator 2 trading cards.
4. A slightly more complete set of Jurassic Park trading cards.
5. Desert Storm trading cards.
6. Countless comic book cards.
7. "Trading Card Treats."
This box of cards, those clothes and that toy bin were going to be things that I could show people years from now, and they'd either marvel at my greatness or mock me for remembering the "good old days" that actually just "sucked." I'd more than likely pull the things out maybe once a year, if only to walk down memory lane. I'd wonder where in the hell I got the sleeve from the Batman soundtrack, that's for sure. And I'd probably use the basketball cards as mulch.
My main reason for writing in my internet diary tonight, though, is those Trading Card Treats. If you look up there in the list of things in my card box, you'll notice that "Trading Card Treats" is in bold. That was foreshadowing.
I had received these cards the same way most other kids received them - in 1991, going from door to door asking for free candy on Halloween. It seems that the candy companies had somehow run afoul of the government, or some such nonsense, and parents were being encouraged to give out trading cards in their place. Perhaps Mike or Ike had pissed off Uncle Sam, not allowing him to be a part of their two man people-with-only-one-syllable-in-their-name club. In fact, my name's Tim, I should be pissed too. Fuck Mike and Ike.
So two weeks ago, I checked my card box. More than half of its contents had disappeared, probably as a result of my brother's looting, and I was pissed. A manly reaction would be to run out into the forest, curse, chop down some trees and build a log cabin. A less manly reaction would be to place a whiny phone call to my mom asking her to scold my sibling. I did one of these things.
Luckily, I still have something my brother does not - an attractive girlfriend who cares enough about my struggles in life to hit EBay up for some overpriced cards. She did just that, and upon receiving them I ran out into the forest and built her a log cabin out of sheer happiness. I really have to thank Anna for these things, they're really comforting to have. The amount of comfort I received from them is probably unhealthy, but a million thank you's still go out to my lady.
Here are the cards:
First up is the "Universal Monsters" series. I had a couple of these in my box, but it never occurred to me just how how bored they all look. Every one of them looks like they'd rather be somewhere else, which would kind of make sense if they were veteran actors all being paid for a lame promo they had no control over. But this is a drawing. It can't be too difficult to make these guys look fierce. Also, I think Frankenstein's Monster is asleep.
Dracula's card features him doing some terrifying hand gesture, and on the back there's an explanation of his origin. The term "un-dead" is hammered into the reader's face as if the concept is difficult to comprehend, but then it all ends with a pun based around a power that isn't even explained. Sure, most people know Dracula can turn into a bat and all, but did you know that he is UN-DEAD? It means not dead but still dead. Shut the fuck up, card.
The Mummy has a broken wrist and wants your sympathy. The Wolf Man has jumped off a cliff into a canyon he didn't know was there, and is now contemplating how to play it off as if he meant to. Comedy is everywhere, people.
Next are the Marvel cards. I remember the above Wolverine card as one of my favorites within not only the Trading Card Treats, but among the actual comic book cards I owned. For one, it had Wolverine in his cooler costume - without the stupid fake animal stripes he normally had. Also, his claws are really, really long here. Too long, actually, since if they receded into his fists like they normally do, they'd easily keep his wrists and elbows from bending. But then people would make fun of his Ken doll-like movements and the claws would come right back out. It's the circle of life.
I imagine little boys everywhere had a good thing going when The Hulk first came on the scene. He looked badass, he smashed things, and there's no way in hell anyone's little sister could play along and ruin everything. Then She-Hulk came out, and suddenly there's a green Barbie who could smash just as much stuff and still look fabulous. I don't know much about She-Hulk and her intentions, but she has nothing but my most profound disapproval.
I like this card a lot. It features Spider-Man interacting with actual trick-or-treaters just like I was, but on the backside it slaps you with a reality check. Spider-Man isn't always going to save your goofy ass if you dart into the street like a fool. I don't remember ever thinking heroes like Spider-Man existed, but I can't help but wonder if anyone ever tried to dive into traffic expecting to be saved by a real life Spider-Man. I'm also not at all comfortable with Spider-Man's quips sounding like my mom's safety lectures. I thought you were cool, Spider-Man.
As much as I like the Marvel set, the Nintendo cards have the best artwork, by far. Scene after scene of video game icons kicking ass, and they do nothing but make me want to play Mario 3, all over again. Then I could realize how bad I am at it, all over again. Leading to me curling up into a ball on the floor and crying. All over again.
If that screaming skeleton with two swords doesn't make you smile, the fire in your soul has gone out.
I can't say that I've ever been a huge Inspector Gadget fan. It may have been a lack of exposure during my developmental stages, but I just never got into it. I had a few of the Inspector Gadget cards from this set, but they weren't particularly treasured. It is good to know that I have the above card, though, which more or less sums up the entire series - the Inspector's Gadget has malfunctioned and that smartass dog and little girl laugh it up. Ahahahohoho.
Never in my life have I read an Archie comic. But even as a kid I could appreciate a red hot threesome, so these cards will always have a home in my card box. My grasp on the series isn't too firm, so I'm not sure that any red hot threesomes actually occurred, but I do know that Archie has a friend named Jughead, who I assume isn't one of the girls above.
Last and also least is a set based upon a cartoon I never watched as a kid - "Widget." Apparently some pro-environment hoopla, it suffers from unappealing character design and (I assume) prevalent homoerotic undertones. I have a very low tolerance for boring cartoons, so I've showed my contempt for the above cards by heavily compressing their JPEG. Maybe it'll help obscure the card on the right, which seems to feature a Robocop knock-off with a more radical color scheme.
So that's that. Most of these cards are really great, and I plan to keep them forever. They bring back memories, which I find incredibly stimulating as a person who has naturally repressed a lot of his childhood. I like recalling the good parts, and I have to once again thank one of the good parts of today - Anna - for getting these for me. If I could, I'd put her in a plastic sleeve just like the cards, but it would probably kill her. And as preachy Spider-Man would say, "Don't kill your girlfriend, kids. After all, not everyone can get away with killing a woman like me!"
Seriously, he did that once. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 15th, 2007|01:14 am] |
My feet are in all the pain.
You'll notice that at this moment, you're feeling absolutely no physical discomfort, and that's because all feelings of this nature have been transported by way of evil to my feet. My feet are now suffering from the worst sunburn I've ever experienced.
I've checked the internet for home remedies that might be more readily available than aloe, which I do not have in my possession, and the only viable possibility is spreading mayonnaise all over my sore appendages and trying very hard not to taste the most forbidden of midnight snacks. I don't want condiments on my feet because deep inside I know that I'll eat them. When I walk into work on Monday, I'll have the following encounters:
COWORKER: Tim, you're limping. Where are your feet?
TIM: I ate them... I ate them last night, and it was amazing.
COWORKER: Jesus Christ, Tim, what the fuck? You're bleeding all over the place.
TIM: [Collapses to the floor]
PARAMEDIC: I can't get this styrofoam container out of his hands!
COWORKER: Oh my god, there's part of his foot in there!
PARAMEDIC: [Tasting the foot remnants] More! I need more!
An epidemic of carnal foot lust results in a worldwide orgy of gore. Life as we know it ends. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 2nd, 2007|11:49 pm] |
Tonight I'm writing in my internet diary, eating junk food for dinner and wiping any remnants of the meal on a t-shirt I don't have to worry about anyone seeing. It's gross, but there's an understated dignity to it that you couldn't possibly understand until you're a grown man. And by god that's what I'm going to make you.
This lazy evening has allowed me to peruse the Instant Viewing choices on Netflix. I've concluded that it's mostly the garbage that's unfit to actually go about mailing to people. The notion of transporting, physically, the likes of The Hitcher 2 or a concert film starring Kevin Fucking Bacon is just really daffy, so it's understandable that this service exists. And a quick and easy joke about the latter flick - it would not be terribly outrageous if one were heard to remark that it is "six degrees of shit." Ooh, Saucy.
I thought there would be more of a point to writing this other than conveying that the path to quality entertainment might lead beyond one's own bedroom, but I suppose that's good enough for today. |
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informativet's journal
