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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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Charlie Bit Me. [Feb. 10th, 2008|03:33 pm]
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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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Last night we had a real live Rock Band in our apartment. [Dec. 15th, 2007|04:02 pm]

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I don't know much about no internet, but... [Dec. 2nd, 2007|01:12 am]
I think I have a myspace now.
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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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