"I look at pictures of myself as a source of inspiration, ugly fuck!"

As unfortunate as the title may sound, it speaks the truth. I was looking at pictures of myself when I finally decided to update this ancient tablet. They were, however, pictures of me as a little fat fuck baby, but they were self images regardless. Judge as harshly as you wish, but if you sit there and say you've never looked at your own baby picture and never thought to yourself,
"My god, I was beautiful. What could've possibly happened to me? I took a complete turn around!"

You're a liar.

By the way, you'll have to excuse the grammatical errors, I'm quite drunk.

Annabelle is coming home in about thirty six hours. I hope I can give her a reason to miss Cincinnati, but I think Cincinnati will give her a reason to want to leave before I can accomplish my goal.

I've been getting more and more aggressive in my behavior with each passing day. Rest easy, guys and gals, I am, by no means, on some homicidal shit, for lack of better terms. I am, however, just very aggressive. I've been feeling overly confident lately, and I think this gaudy confidence must be a cause of my overly aggressive attitude. I've never been big on fighting, and I still think it's stupid, however, lately I've been thinking that if it were to happen, I'd be way more prone to get into it. I mean, why not? I'm 22 years young and only been in a small handful of scuffles. Most of which I had no direct blame. I was just a civi! Now, I'm certainly not trying to walk down the street with my chin up, shoulders spread, and chest out looking for someone who wants to scuffle with a malnourished-esque white boy from the burbs, but I mean I guess what I'm trying to say is I feel good. I feel alive! I feel vulnerable! I feel mortal! I feel death brushing his long, thin fingertips up and down my neck and back, as if trying to comfort me into falling asleep, but I never do! I stay alert, I stay focused, but I stay aware of the constant, ever present inevitability wafting gently, closer then anyone could ever imagine. That's another thing. No matter how prepared for death you think you are, be it a relative or even your own (I assume), you can never fully equip yourself for such a venture. If I had a dollar for ever minute I spent repeating to myself,

"Be strong. You knew this was coming. This is natural. You knew this was coming. This is life. You knew this was coming. It's better this way. You knew this was coming. Think of your family. You knew this was coming. You have to be strong for them. You knew this was coming and you know how to handle it..."

I'd be a god damned millionaire... But it's just not that easy.

I'm rambling. I know that blogs are more or less THE place to ramble, it's essentially what they're made for, but I can never bring myself to believe that my ramblings are legitimate, let alone validated. So instead of fartin' around with all of this wasted rhetoric, I'll take a stab at talking about something relevant.
















Sike.







Alright, alright. Enough fun. I honestly can't believe what I've allowed myself to become. Where is my head? It's clearly not in the game. That's the easy part. The hard part is finding out where my head is, or I guess if it's the weekend, where my head has been. Heh heh, ladies. Heh heh. I'm obviously kidding. Isn't it funny that it's always the guys who never get laid who constantly talk about getting laid? I mean, I dont mean to rain on your ever-so-dry parade fellas, but when you haven't made it with a lovely woman you always tend to make it very apparent, and I feel like that's your downfall, and I'm willing to bet there's a lot of girls, who you've probably hit on, who would totally agree with me. Wanna know why? Because I'm really fucking smart.

Speaking of my intelligence, you wanna know what I would say to married couples facing a divorce? I'd sit them both down, let them know how ugly they both are, because we all know they are, and I'd tell them to grow the fuck up, recognize the qualities in your partner that you fell in love with other than their rockin' body, which obviously faded with time, and learn to appreciate it, or get ready for a long, lonely life spent with different partners who are as fickle as you and the only consistancy is the dog that you own. That's right you old fogie, you'll end up alone and dying with your boston terrier. You want that? Knock yourself out. I, however, would rather grow old and decrepit with a human than a dog any day. Not only does it remind you of just how humane you used to be, but it counts as a double pat on the back for managing to convince a broad to stick with you for as long as she did. Wear that saggy skin as a badge of honor. A badge of gross, smelly, varicose, geriatric honor. You know what Grampa Fred? You deserve not only one Medal of Honor, but you deserve two. Because despite how much I appreciate the beauty of a mature woman, I could never bring myself to do it with a codger. That is, I could never bang a real, honest to god grannie. It's just gross. It just is.


I think I've covered all bases.

"You need to update your blog you lazy fuck"

We as people, as a relatively civilized society share a similar set of guidelines. A set of unwritten rules that sort of separate the rats from the royalty, so to speak. You wanna know what I think? It's all bullshit. You know what makes me writhe in disgust and resentment? When you're in a one-man bathroom in a bar, don't lock the door, and don't give a verbal warning to the handsome young man walking in to take a piss. Those guys who go to social gatherings, not huge parties really, but more a large intimate gathering of similar people, picks someone out like a homicidal maniac with a sniper rifle aiming into a crowd, and decides to barrage that poor sap with so much political and philosophical horse shit that it makes erotic asphyxiation sound like a really good time. Don't misunderstand me, I'm all for having a stimulating conversation and everything, but when the bulk of the conversation involves you discussing either the science and possibility behind a cyborg super army, various government conspiracies/secret societies, or the fucking oil spill, it really makes me want to kill myself. Replace the cyborg super army with space travel, Mars rovers and the like. Toss that government conspiracy jive and let's talk about... actually let's just forget about politics all together. It's dumb for 20-something's who, if spent a fraction of our time reading newspapers and watching the news as we did getting drunk and talking about the news we didn't hear about, would probably be the greatest presidents this country's ever seen, to discuss such trivial matters in a situation you know god damned well is not an ok thing to talk about, especially with someone you don't know.

I suppose it all comes down to manners. If you meet someone new, say through a friend of a friend, it's generally a good idea to not really swear too often. Don't walk around your friends parents' house without a shirt on in the middle of the day. Good posture when meeting someone of great significance is an absolute must. Straighten up you little shit, you're not even 30 year's old and you already look like you need a walker. For god's sake chew with your mouth closed. I don't know what it is, but the sound of people chewing up a mouthful of food digs underneath my skin deeper than the fucking bones in my body. I mean, you guys know the rules!

So basically what I'm trying to say is tighten up guys. You're only following the basic rules. I'm not saying you should start sipping tea with your pinkie jutting out from the cup like a radio tower from the Earth, however, I am saying you should lock the bathroom door in public places, you asshole!

I'm just saying...

Ok, so it's not like I want my blog to be a series of paragraphs spewing hatred regarding celebrities or anything, but seriously, they make it entirely too easy. So Just Bieber... He's got a song out called "Somebody to Love." Oh, I'm sorry, I thought Queen sort of already used that title. The Black Eyed Peas have a song called I've Got A Feeling? Yeah, THE BEATLES ALREADY USED THAT TITLE. I know it's a minor ripoff, but seriously. Cut that shit out. While we're on the subject, I'd like to remind you all of a Pepsi (gross) commercial that came out some time in 2009, and it was basically a split screen showing things from the past, and then the equivalent of that thing, except a modern version, and Will I Am, that fucking asshole, has the audacity to follow up an image of Bob Dylan with his big fat fucking face. Now I'm no huge fan of Dylan or anything, but I'm even less of a Black Eyed Peas fan, and can decipher the difference between a song with some blood, and a blasé, corny pop song. Apparently, Will I am, can not.

I'm not asking anyone to stop making music. Keep it up, you're making a shit ton of money, and it's all on you when a chick takes a few more shots of Wild Berry Smirnoff to the face because her favorite Mike Posner song gets played, and she gets drunk enough to actually become a chick I could potentially bang, and I back that. I'm just saying, stop being a dick about your execution. You know when people see the title of those tracks they're going to think to themselves, "Oh wow, Bieber's covering Queen? That's sort of a drag, but it's pretty cool that he's at least trying. Do it to it, JB, do it to it." But upon playing the song, they're quick to realize, "Oh yeah, I forgot. He's a soul-less tool, used for nothing but profit and moistening the females britches."

You know what really annoys me? When people assume the only way your decision/opinion on a matter will only be changed if they just spew unto you really cliche reasons to or not to. Having said that, I'd like to establish the fact that I'm not really trying to persuade you to start, if you don't already, hating this or that, however, I'm just bringing the turkey to the table. The fork and knife are in your hands, it's your call big guy.

Aaaaaanyways. I'm going to try and start writing more, which means I guess I'll have to actually search for things that I hate. Oh cruel fate, you're such a dickhead.

DM vs BM

Death metal is sooo much better then black metal.

Seriously?

Ok, I'm sure we can all agree that Lady Gaga's music is, in fact, a corrupting addition to mankind equal, or even greater, to the inventing of the nuclear bomb. Now though, it's more than just her music. It's her every being. The very atoms which make up her horrid, sloppy, make-up encrusted fucking face, are slowly destroying our image as human beings. Listen, if you want to listen to Lady Gaga and throw Lady Gaga theme parties and freak the fuck out when the DJ plays Lady Gaga or whatever, that's totally cool, but if you honestly believe she's something more than just a modern day Madonna, and that she's going to bring something refreshing to pop music, you're a fucking fool. Hell, you can't even say she's a modern day Madonna, because Madonna's still around! People are just so oblivious to how unoriginal and ass-backwards she REALLY is. I, being the generous, philanthropic gent that I am, have taken it upon myself to be a blinding light of truth, shining directly into the black, cold soul of Lady Gaga.



Ok, so let's start with the obvious: Her music. To say that Lady Gaga has a bad voice is just foolish. She can sing, and she does it well. Having said that, to say that Lady Gaga and Marilyn Manson, amongst others, don't share striking similarities is also just foolish. Take that fucking Bad Romance song. The bass-snare combination gives it this sort of industrial sound, which Lady Fucking Asshole Gaga, said herself, is what she was going for. Ok, that's fine, make an Industrial song and call it Pop, whatever. Do NOT, however, have the audacity to completely snatch Manson's sort of forced Baritone singing and to a beat that is also totally Manson-esque. I'm not saying that I'm a huge Marilyn Manson fan or anything, I just really like ruining things for people. A lot of people will combat my anti-music theories with the arguement that Lady Gaga can play piano... Oh..my..god. Do you mean to tell me that a MUSICIAN knows how to play an INSTRUMENT?! Someone call the fucking Pope, Lady Gaga knows how to play piano. Shut the fuck up, who cares if Gaga can tickle the ivories? That hardly gives her a "Get Out of Accepting the Fact That You're Just Another Pop Singer" card.



On a related note, the fact that her second cd was literally nothing more than the first cd with some other songs added to it, is fucking ridiculous. Do you people really not see the cheap gimmick that she's pulling? To say that she had to re-release it with more songs because she felt the first one wasn't "complete" isn't commendable or impressive at all. It's just her saying, "Hey, I released an incomplete cd, and it was a hit, so I'm going to give you the same cd, except this time it's actually finished. Buy it!" and you bought it, didn't you?



I was actually really looking forward to talking about this. Her fucking fashion. I think it's a reasonable assumption to make that Lady Gaga is hugely identified by her zany outfits, yeah? Well, that'd be totally cool, except for one thing. SHE'S A FUCKING MUSICIAN. If you write songs for a living, and people pay more attention to your fucking stupid costumes, you're fucking up. It just proves how forgettable her music is. If people stop paying attention to your singing because your t-shirt has elephant tusks jutting out from the shoulders, you just stopped being a musician. You're now a piss-poor excuse for a model who just happens to sing. It's just like with Manson! First of all, Lady Gaga totally snagged his digs on more than one occasion. Second, people talked about his clothes and shit just as much, if not more than they did his music. The only time people actually talked about his music is when kids shot other kids and then shot themselves. Unfortunately for Lady Gaga, I don't think anyone's gonna blame her for a mass murder/suicide. Maybe just the suicide, but not murder. Ok maybe the murder too.



Finally, let's talk about her sexuality. She's openly admitted to preferring women over men before, but she's not a lesbian. Thus making her bisexual. Lady Gaga, you are not fucking bisexual. No one in the entire world is bisexual. I refuse to believe anything other than the fucking fact that it's a bullshit ploy to get gay dudes to like her even more than they already would. She's got this condescending pro-feminist attitude that just pisses me off so much. Hey Lady Gaga. I'd rather stick my dick inside of a barracuda's mouth than that ghostly orifice you so inappropriately call your vagina. If you're gonna dig chicks, then stop making these absurd "I'm so mad at my ex-boyfriend" music videos that actually hold ZERO relevance to the song involved. It's not that I expect all music videos to follow a story relevant to the song. It's just when musicians try and force a plot into a music video and turn it into a movie is when I get pissed. Back off, stay in your realm, you asshole. I feel like if a dude musician made a video like that "Telephone", in which this dude gets out of jail, gets picked up by his possibly gay lover (Beyonce, what the fuck?), and poisons and kills his one time female lover, people would SHIT themselves. They'd scream out "Fag!" and "Domestic violence!" Actually, that sort of sounds like something Marilyn Manson would do.



Look, maybe I'm going to sound like an asshole, but honestly, I feel like I'm doing the musician a favor by listening to them, and if I think the musician is a complete and utter tool, then I'm gonna be like fuck that noise! Lady Gaga, is in fact, a tool. She, in attempting to be completely original, has made herself into a complete carbon copy of any other over-the-top artist. Had she just focused on making music, had she just fixed her eyes upon the very piano that got her to where she is now, instead of looking into space, then I probably wouldn't have had to write all this shit. Thanks for making me care Lady Gaga, I look forward to your funeral. I'll be wearing a bedazzled speedo and shoulder pads.

Dear Avatar,,,

Prof. Paul Frommer, it is your job, your duty, as a professor to further people's intelligence. So, the fact that you have ANYTHING to do with the Na'vi language and the large following of people who are actually learning to speak this language makes me want to fucking kill you. Thanks for taking a monumental shit on the idea of intelligence, you dick. Also, if you're trying to learn this language, just keep going. Dedicate every waking, and sleeping moment for that matter, to the idea of a reality in Pandora, you fucking hopeless idiot. I HATE you. HAAAAAATE you.



The fact that so many people were so unbelievably captivated by this movie only proves that pretty lights and colors can still hypnotize the large majority of the populace, you fucking subhuman ape creatures. Don't sit there and say you liked the story. You're a liar. Go watch Dances With Wolves if you liked the Avatar story. That movie, despite being really fucking lame, at least had enough substance to it that it did well. All Avatar and James Cameron did was bend Kevin Costner over a pinball machine and took turns brutally raping him... In 3-D! Look, I'm all about fun movie going experiences, but the fact that I spoke with a man the other day about the utter audacity they had for saying that Avatar was the #1 movie of all time... And he agreed... Just goes to show how completely dense we've become. Also, these dvd sales... You should be ashamed. 3-D in a movie theater is exponentially better than 3-D at home. You've got the movie industry's blood all over your filthy fucking hands.



I recently decided to nut-up and sit through this three hour shit-show atrocity we call Avatar. The acting was shit. The plot was shit. The action scenes were few and far between, and considering this is considered to be an Action/Adventure movie, that means it's shit. It doesn't do a good job in ANY ASPECTS AT ALL, aside from being really, really pretty. Which, honestly, didn't really win me over. I wasn't that blown away. Also, the fact that James Cameron keeps getting all of this praise is absolute horse shit. Unless he spent all of those tireless hours on a computer tinkering away making a regular human babe look like she's a giant blue babe, he really didn't do much of anything.



In conclusion, Avatar can indefinitely, endlessly, ruthlessly go fuck itself in a fashion not unlike a sea serpent would. Entangled, frantic, and confusing. James Cameron, the same goes for you, though I don't doubt that you already masturbate to your own mirror image, you jowly, sloppy, micro organism. Thank you.

What the fuck?

Why do people still refer to homes as "cribs" still? Hey, faggot. It's not 2001 anymore, which isn't really the point, considering it was never really cool to say cribs. You have to completely go out of your way to start calling a residence a "crib". I know you weren't raised in an environment that used that phrase. So the only other possibility is somewhere in between your, more than likely, accidental birth, and current day, you decided that using the word "crib" in any way other than what you stick your stinky, ugly offspring in so you don't have to take care of it, would somehow be cool, unique, or interesting. Fuck you, I don't live in a crib, I live in a house. That goes double for throwing up a peace sign with the back of your hand facing out, with a bend wrist and saying "payce yo." FUCK OFF.



Pitroff's coming home at the end of July. I hope he doesn't expect Cincinnati to be different... At all.



This generation is seriously full of fucking idiots. Electronic music is cool to listen to sometimes. SOMETIMES. But to base your entire music library on a series of beeps, modified voices, and bass beats is just fucking stupid.

Some of these kids' haircuts are so... Fucking... Stupid. It makes me want to save them the embarrassment of living another day and just hack off their head and shove it up their gaping assholes. They'd look a lot less retarded that way. You know exactly what haircuts I'm talking about too. You definitely know.

Remember when 80's style, music, and fashion went out of style? Yeah, me neither. BECAUSE IT WAS SO LONG AGO. Remember when it became cool again? Yeah, me neither. BECAUSE IT'S FUCKING STUPID. Rihanna is, as far as I'm concerned, is the only human being allowed to pull it off because she's fucking hot regardless of what she's doing. If she was vomiting into a stroller with a mentally challenged infant strapped in there, she'd still be hot.

...And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

It's only been 13 days since I've last visited, my close friend, $$$$. It feels as though an absolute eternity has passed.




I really have to stop getting drunk and letting my friends tear my flesh with rinky-dink homemade tattoo guns. Having said that, I'm going to be getting drunk and letting my friends tear my flesh with a rinky-dink homemade tattoo gun. Though, it's going to be different this time. I'm not the only one doing it! Sort of a primitive, testosterone driven bro thing, I guess. Maybe I'll get an anchor on the inside of my arm. Ouch.




I should probably just stop getting drunk altogether. Right, Annabelle? Although, the one thing I've been drinking more than alcohol is water, and that's always good. Basketball on the reg, workouts on the reg. I think, as far as health concerns go, I'm in the clear.




Watch Breaking Bad.

It's 60 degrees outside, and I'm inside writing in my blog.

I hate face paint, stickers, Harry Potter, wet socks, songs that skip, dvds that skip, music with overly poor recording quality, music with overly excellent recording quality, having to speed up your pace to walk past big fat slow fuckers on the sidewalk, little yippy dogs, dance parties, dancing in general, sports bars, classy bars, bars that SERVE NON-ALCOHOLIC BEER, neighbors, neighborhoods, neighborhood watches, neighborhood watchers, semi-trucks, environmentalists, animal rights activists, feminists, sexists, ethnic activists, racists, religion, atheists, politicians, anarchists, anti-war activists, pro-war activists, people who glorify being sober, people who glorify being drunk, stoners, hippies, yuppies, one-time-hippie-turned-yuppies, club rap, club rappers, clubs, people who chew with their mouths open, people who breathe too loudly, people who listen to music ridiculously loud, prudes, whores, people who say 'I know right?', rude customers at restaurants, shithead waiters and waitresses, bad bartenders, garbage men, garbage men who think use the phrase 'waste management engineer', lipstick, people who think reading novels makes you smart, people who think reading poetry makes you smart, people who think reading makes you smart, DJs at parties, parties, really expensive beer, really expensive liquor, really expensive pot, nice weather, shitty weather, and last, but certainly not least, I hate you.

Idle hands...

Don Quixote of La Mancha, a fictional character in author Miguel de Cervantes highly praised novel "The Ingenios Hidalgo Don Quixote of La Mancha, is a textbook example of childhood imagination, curiosty, and adventure. A more in depth and professional version of Maurice Sendak's character Max of "Where the Wild Things Are." Though it hardly does Don Quixote justice, the two bear striking similarities. The obvious being their infamous imagination, as Don Quixote believes he is a knight-errant, a true hero of yesteryear. Seeking out quests, monsters to slay, and things of the like. Max, like Don Quixote, also believes himself to be something he, in all reality, is not. A king, an adventurer, a sorcerer. So much so that he creates a reality of his own, sinking himself into his own thoughts and perceptions. Living in a world seen only through his eyes.




Now that that's out of the way, I can get down to what I really came for. Currently kickin' it in the Kings Library of Miami Oxford, I'm mearly attempting to kill a couple of hours until 4:30. What happens at 4:30? Kyle's got a little art show going on, and I being the supportive, and all around nice guy that I am, agreed to go to it. However, being that I caught a ride here, and Kyle has class, unbeknownst to me, until the afformentioned time, I must fend for myself in an unfamiliar, unforgiving, alien world. I thought I would be able to find a more secluded computer where I could, guilt free, hang out and play around on addictinggames.com, without feeling like a complete idiot. I was wrong. I'm more or less positioned smack dab in the middle of the library, my back turned to a respectable army of students, not knowing whether or not they're actually convinced I'm writing something of worth to a college education. This trickery I may or may not be successfully pulling off, explains my half-assed joke of, what they believe to be, a "book report" comparing an eight sentence childrens novel, to a fullblown literary epic. I mean, I'm not bullshitting around with the deception aspect of it. I've got wikipedia, dictionary.com, and numerous other research related websites open to add to the effect. I suppose I just have to worry about wether or not an eagle eyed asshole decides to take a gander at my impeccible writing abilities. Who could blame them?




I saw a kid riding around on a scooter today. He played it off to his friend, who was walking, which makes the scooter look even more redundant, as if he weren't being serious, as though he thought it would be funny to onlookers to see a grown man on a mobility mechanism designed for ten year old girls. He even went so far as to attempt to do a killer move on his iron steed. He, of course, wasn't successful at executing his incredibly difficult maneuver. Which, I don't know made him look like more of an idiot or not. Anyone who can actually do a killer stunt on a Razor Scooter must have spent some time trying to pull it off. Having said that, because he's clearly prone to playing things off like he's not way into it, one could just as easily assume he intentionally didn't nail his radical move so as to prevent him from looking like even more of an ass. Oh scooter kid. What a tangled web you weave, when we first practice to deceive.




Ugh. The time is now 2:41. I've been writing for maybe 20 minutes. I'll have to get back to this.

He get's all that anger from me...

Okay, so. I went to The Ohio University in Athens, Ohio this past weekend. Arrived at about 9:00 pm, and immediately began consuming alcohol. I went to a party, was verbally assaulted by two feminists who refused my apologies and kept insisting that I was "so lucky." You're right. I consider myself to be extremely lucky to choose to facetiously pinch the butt of the ONE girl who would react in a very unreasonably and stubborn way. I must've been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, or maybe a rabbits foot up my ass. Who knows? No harm, no foul. That's how I see it. Woke up relatively early the next morning. Maybe around 10:30, which is early as far as Everclear is concerned. We showered, ate some day old Wendy's, and began drinking again at a groundbreaking time of 12:30, which is groundbreaking as far as Everclear is concerned. Half of us seperated to go parading around campus. Showing us the sights and the like. Whereas the other half remained put, feverishly consuming what must be one of the strongest Growler full of mixed drinks I've ever made. Yes, I was the mastermind behind the drink which was responsible for my friends roommate, who has dreadlocks (that IS relevant to the story) to slip into some pretty serious hipster gear, walk around with a bass, and insist he was the "White Lil Wayne." Keep in mind this was going on before the sun had set. It was lots of fun. Buddies band played a show at a bar called The Union, the local hipster bar, which was cool. I was thoroughly inebriated and couldn't stop myself from "WOO!-ing" over and over. They did a Bad Brains cover show, which was even more fun, because shows are boring unless the musics fast, and the crowd is rowdy. Fuck all that other noise. His band, The Red Army, always have good shows. The lead singer, Will, always does a good job. He's super into it, which shouldn't even be a problem. I mean, how do you expect the crowd to be into it, if the bands not even into it? Pretty basic shit, if you ask me. All-in-all it was a good time. Got to see some old friends, got to make some new friends, got to have a pretty killer jam sesh with my friends little brother, who will, for all intents and purposes, be hereby known as Samus.





Oh yeah, I had a really, really wicked conversation with some old-school hippie dude who graduated college back in '95 at some Irish bar. He had super long hair, which he wore in a ponytail, though even with it tied back, it was still unruly. We sort of just talked about how the large majority of college kids are incredibly dumb, and don't even realize that the career they're "pursuing" isn't feasible at all, that they're just living a $30,000 fairy tale, and will be very upset when they get a job not relating to their major at all. He was actually a fine arts major at UC. DAAP program, even. He now works a shitty 9-5 in some run down factory outside of Athens, and the highlight of his weeks are getting to get sloshed at some college bar with a bunch of goofy white kids running around talking about being a caucasian version of a big time rapper. It made me feel better, at least. I thrive on your sadness!

Still, things could be much worse....

OH WAIT, NO THEY COULDN'T.




So this morning, I step outside in what I thought was appropriate apparel for the current weather conditions. Wrong. Apparently there's a sink hole in my side walk which I, of course, stepped in. That means wet socks which, if you didn't know, I literally hate more than anything in the world. Immediately after having soaked my socks in cold snow, a mammoth icicle, about two feet long, comes crashing down onto my head, which already hurt, due to the excessive amount of alcohol I consumed the previous evening. Amazing. Now, here's the real kick in the ass. The reason I was stepping outside was to smoke my last cigarette. The very, very last one, and who didn't see this coming from a mile away? It was broken. Not in the manner that you can just remove one part and smoke it without a filter, it was broken right smack dab in the middle. I still smoked it, by god.

LMFAO.... Dont make me laugh.

So. This piss poor excuse for a musical group, LMFAO, who play their own blend of dance music and... Well, that's really all it is, are coming to Cincinnati. Covington actually, but lets be honest, they're the same thing. The worst part? Not their shit music, not the stupid fucking fans of their shit music, rather, it's the local rappers that are opening up for them. Not only that, but all of the somewhat well established DJ's are supporting them, and even calling them hip-hop, and rappers and the like. Hey idiots. Stop setting the rap scene back to the 80's.




"Huh huh huh huh, yeah so like. We'll be two morbidly hipster black(?) dudes from LA and we'll travel to all the midwest college campuses, since we know they'll eat up anything that comes from the west coast, and call ourselves rappers, but in fact say little more than 'Pour a shot, take a shot, pour a shot, take a shot!' over and over and over and over and over and we'll couple that with mediocre, pretentious techno disco bullshit and say we're a hip-hop/house revival!"




I swear to fucking god when I'm a rich and famous rapper I'm not giving ANY shout outs to Cincinnati, since you guys are all fucking stupid. Go listen to Ke$ha, she actually raps in her songs. Yes, a white drunken slut raps better than LMFAO. I'd rather slit my wrists and listen to the blood pitter patter onto the bathroom floor than hear those two retards grumble about party timing and getting their dance on. God damnit.

Her long dark hair may weave a snare that I may one day rue...

I had a dream last night. You might be able to call it a nightmare, but it wasn't particularly scary, possibly due to the outlandish material it held. See, I was walking down a dirt road, woods on either side, when a lioness sort of just appeared. I was with a couple of friends, and they managed to avoid it's wrath by, simply, walking around it. I, however, was not as fortunate as I tried to do the same and was promptly bitten in the hand. The lioness just sat there, tasting my flesh (I'm sure she was pleased,) as I debated what the best course of action would be to get a full grown she-beast off of your hand. I was smoking a cigarette at the time, so I decided to jam it into the eye of the ferocious feline. She then turned tail and scurried away, back into the forest from whence she came. If anyone has the ability to interpret dreams, I challenge you with that one. I've got some other pretty bizarre ones if you'd like to have a long conversation some time.

When speaking for God...

I was born with a tongue as silver as a dinner fork, and just as... forked?




My memories from my childhood are hazy at best. Not to say that they're bad, I just think that due to my increased consumption of alcohol, my brain has been forced to do a bit of spring cleaning, if you will. They're mostly comprised of family fishing trips, severe illness and/or injuries including, but not limited to, busting my head open numerous times, extremely high fevers resulting in extremely bizarre hallucinations involving who knows what, family reunions, a fender bender, a wedding, a funeral, and other typical family oriented situations.




My grand disappearance will be anything but grand. It will be subtle and unheard, just like any good disappearance. If you have a going away party, you're not disappearing, you're leaving. Sometimes I feel like you're not even worth seeing my hand wave goodbye.




I want to explain to you the feeling that I've been overwhelmed with at the mere sight of you since we first met, but I don't have the ability to articulate such an amazing emotion. I know it's not love, it's so much more. It nearly brings me to tears, but elevates me to a height which can't be measured by any earthly standard. So high that my falling tears only add to the downpour that happens all too often in the month of April.




No homo.

... And I shall shake the earth.

Dearest Evelyn,

You have been, and will forever be, an inspiration to me. I have but one regret in the short, but passionate life I've lived, and that is not ripping open my chest and letting my love for you burst out. Please don't look at this as me leaving you because of a distaste for you. I just don't feel as though I deserve to be able to stand so close to you. You were the very hands and knees which I found myself crawling on so often through this life of unbearably difficult hurdles and decisions. I'm sorry I couldn't be the man you deserved.

Half a mile from the county fair, and the rain came pouring down...

So. Having been around deeply inebriated young adults whilst being more sober than not, I've come to the inevitable conclusion. I hate myself. Hear me out. I have this nasty habit of getting pretty drunk, and now that the truth has been unveiled, after being let out of the darkness and being thrust with the utmost force into the unbearably bright light of reality, I've realized not only do I have a nasty habit of getting pretty drunk, I, therefore, have a nasty habit of being a complete jackass. I suppose that's not much of a secret though. I mean, just ask my friends. Also, I've realized that I can't stand people. Absolutely detest them. Parties, as well. Parties are meant for one thing. An excuse for people to do things they regret, and fuck, which I suppose both go hand in hand, more often than not. People are always looking for someone to fuck, it's like second nature to these people. It's like breathing, but with genitals. I suppose I'm just as guilty of it, but at least I have enough testicular fortitude to admit it. That makes me better than the rest of you.



When is the last time you heard a song that brought you to tears? Has it ever happened? If not, you're not listening to the right stuff, man. When it hits you, my god, it will be unlike anything you'll ever feel. An absolute clusterfuck of feeling. It makes me want to blow my brains out, or beat the shit out of a brick wall until my knuckles are not only exposed, but are crumbling right before my eyes, but out of sheer joy. Too much of anything is bad, even happiness. Pure, uncorrupted, raw soul will, as Satan as my witness, will be the death of me. Either that, or metal, obviously.



In an effort to perk up, and not be completely morose around you, I've begun... Ugh, "pumping iron," for lack of better terms. It's to my understanding that regular and exercise is supposed to make you feel better. Warmer, happier, that sort of thing. That, and I'm going to get buff so I can start fucking people up when they piss me off.



Sometimes I feel like it's best to just cut your losses and move on, rather than try to rebuild a relationship with a person. Relationships, platonic or otherwise, should be easy. Without hurdles, and without struggle. If not, it's a matter of your own stubborn ways. To think otherwise just proves my point.



Fishing, ladies and gentlemen, is the single most important activity anyone, assuming they're in an appropriate climate, can practice. It stresses, even forces ease, relaxation, patience, and conversation. Only pussies and hippies don't like fishing. Pussies and hippies substitute fishing for yoga, and that's fucking stupid.



I swear to god, if I hear another person talking about how awesome Jersey Shore is, I'm going to personally travel to the Jersey Shore, and I'm going to destroy it. Oh wait. Look, the fact of the matter is people are buying into such a fucking gimmick. Those people are put there for people to make fun of. To laugh at. To sarcastically, and ironically cheer and mimic. Those people were chosen out of a huge group of people who were picked because they were best suited to absorb and feed off of this negativity. Like a plant converting sunlight into nourishment, these fucking vampires of constructive criticism only continue to thrive because of America's youth. Thanks again, assholes.







Jackie Wilson said... We lack the luster of yesteryear.

In an attempt to fill in the cracks...

Let me tell you something about a Mr. Robert Fucking Pattinson. He's a cock sucker. Girls might jump to the hasty conclusion that I hate his beautiful fucking face because I'm jealous. Fact: You're an idiot if you think that, and dont deserve the freedoms which Women's Rights Activists fought so hard for, bitch. I hate Mr. Robert Fucking Pattinson for a wide variety of reasons. Firstly, I hate him because he's completely ruined the concept of vampires for me. Shit, I'll even go so far as to say he's ruined yesteryears horror movie master Vincent Price for me. I cant even look at him without thinking of glittery skin. What an ass. Plus, have you seen the trailers for this new movie he's coming out with? Here: http://www.nowpublic.com/culture/robert-pattinson-new-movie-remember-me-trailer-video-2521585.html


It's in HD, so you can actually see his camel toe.




Lets not forget this rumor about him playing the new Spiderman? I swear to god if he does this I will hunt down the president of Sony and feed him his own testicles, along with every other males testicles in their entire family in front of the entire world. so they all know that this assholes bloodline just came to a screeching hault. See, I like Spiderman. He's probably my favorite of all superheros (with Batman at a close second,) and to see this guy, this stupid fucking pansy-man as your friendly neighborhood Spiderman makes me cringe. I truely, sincerely detest Mr. Robert Fucking Pattinson.




Secondly, I hate how he has single handedly bred an abomination of a generation of Vampyre Kidz. It's like that one episode of Southpark, you know the one where the goth kids are pissed at the Vampyre kidz for copping their style? Amazing foresight SP writers, kudos. Now dont get me wrong, I am by no means sympathizing with the equally douchey Goth kids. I am however, sympathizing with the general population, with whom must deal with these two groups of industrial/AFI (New AFI, where Davey Havoc is a hot goth chick) loving, "across the street" wrist slitting, homo-erotic assholes plaguing Waffle House, any and all venues, or anywhere you're at, really. They're like cockroaches. In the sense that where there's one, there's more, they're hard to get rid of, and they're afraid of the light. Haaaaa! It's especially annoying when you're just standing there, minding your own business, and if you happen to be wearing all black, because it's an easy color to wear, and this little shit bag, in an attempt to impress his morbidly obese girlfriend wearing a dog collar, like the fucking pitbull that she is, tries to talk shit on you. Hey kid. If I werent afraid of the cops, I'd stomp your teeth out, and then run from your girlfriend, because she would probably kick my ass. Also, no, you cant bum a fucking "cig." Maybe I'm just jealous that at the age of 15 they can grow a better mustache than me.




You know what gets me through each day? Inebriation? Sure, sometimes. Exercise? It helps, that's for sure. Friends? I suppose so, sure. ELO? Abso-fucking-lutely. That is, Electric Light Orchestra. The symphonic rock sensation that took over from the early 70's to mid 80's. Best known for their smash hit "Evil Woman," ELO is a 7 man force that would make Philip Glass shit himself. After having 11 killer wax smashers, winning over 50 different awards, having innumerable amounts of top 40 hits, ELO still hasnt made it into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Fuck Cleveland.

Waves and waves and waves and crash and waves.

I detest almost every emotion that comes to me, be they mine, be they yours.







You know what I hate? I hate love. Not the way that pretentious heartbroken poets hate love, the way that a realist hates love. To believe in love is immature, childish, a fairy tale life. Love is like politics. Dirty lies and tolerance for people that you dont really care that much about at all, just so they'll keep you around for a few more years. Yeah, I like that.







The reason I cant be happy for anyone is because most of the people who are happy dont even know it, and when they do know it, they dont know why. Unappreciative for one of the most amazing feelings you can never have. If you're happy and you dont know it, how do you know you're happy? How do you know you're just not sad? I hope I bummed you out, you deserve it.







I hate the fact that I like Charles Bukowski. Why? Have you met Charles Bukowski fans? Imagine a Phish fan who intentionally drives themselves into an alcoholic slump to achieve that necessary "status" of a good writer. You're pathetic.







How do you not like Iron Maiden?







My current favorite thing to do is play drums. I think it's because it provides me an opportunity to drown out the sounds of you guys bitching about scarves.







How do you not like Iron Maiden?







Never trust someone who falls into any of the following categories;

-They dont listen to Iron Maiden
-They dont drink, and I stress this.*

-They have an overwhelmingly blunt faith in a religion. Any religion.

-They lack subtlety in general.

-They have a tendency to not adapt to their situation, but to mimic it. In laments terms, you fucking idiot, a product of their environment. This suggests a feeble personality, thus inconsistancy, thus a lack of trust.

-They find tattoos to be immoral and wrong.

-They're overly political, unless their profession requires them to be so. A business major has no fucking place telling me shit about D.C.

-They've never smoked pot before.*

-They love their highschool.

-They spend more time perfecting themselves than they do destroying themselves.

-They believe the swine flu is in fact a plague. Shit, if they think it's even a problem at all, kick them straight to the curb.

-They think blogging is actually a legitimate form of writing and can build a career solely on it. I'm looking your way Perez Hilton, you stinky pile of twice excreted feces. Ok, honestly, how the fuck does this burden on society, this big fat fucking puss-filled boil on the image of America, get away with being on TV, yet they wont legalize pot or gay marriage due to morality issues? Though I suppose that's me being overly political.

-They like Perez Hilton.

-They like Paris Hilton.

-They have the gall, the unrelenting nerve to break your concentration with a phone call that says "Dude, James. I accidently smoked pot. No, no I mean like, I gave into peer pressure and now I'm driving and... hey, James. Am I driving alright? I'm not speeding am I? Ok cool. OH WAIT, SHIT. What street does Richard live on again? ...I think I just passed it. Dude, I'm too high for this, I have to go."

-They consider a Mr. Robert Zimmerman to be one of the best vocalists of all time. If they consider him to have a better voice than Van Morrison, I urge you to stab them with the nearest, dullest, rustiest object you can get your slimey little mits on.

-They dont like any sport at all. Having said that, I'd like to clarify that they needn't be a sports fanatic. They dont even have to play the sport. If you can't talk to a stranger in a bar about any sports event to have ever happened, you should be cast out of society to live with the rest of the un-physically active critters wandering around the once lush, now toxic forests of America.

-They love Mother Nature. Haiti. New Orleans. China. The dinosaurs. Need me to keep going?

-They dont like comedy. If you have no sense of humor, you really, truely will never ever find joy in life. You know who doesnt have a sense of humor? The suicide bombers. Maybe follow their example, except you dont have to kill dozens of other innocent people, but then again, that's just me being overly political.



*These instances dont apply to a Mr. Tyler Witte, because he's amazing, and he's pure of any and all inebriating substances.







I've begun writing a memoir. Unless you want your name to be completely, ruthlessly, brutally honestly, and hilariously tarnished, I suggest either getting your game tight, or stop talking to me.












"James likes most of us... Right?"