i wore a new t-shirt one time before staining it with burgundy-colored vomit

if ever a sentence describes my life, the one above might be it? sorry, housekeeping service in holiday inn express room 327 in athens, tennessee. my bad.

what's to care when to care requires energy

humans have a daily allowance of energy to expend. society provides hundreds of methods by which humans can unload their energy, and some might be just a little more fun than others. for instance, i'd much rather bareback a hooker than whip myself with a cat-o'-nine-tails. although masochism is probably an effective--and spiritual--outlet. and hell, barebacking a hooker could be viewed as masochism, too; i, however, see it as my attempt to establish my masculine dominance.

for your amusement, a list of vignettes. or really, less than vignettes, but soul-damning lines uttered in my direction.

"out of all the guys i've dated, you've been the only one who was halfway decent," she said, choking back tears. "this guy i've been sleeping with, well, i found out that he was still sleeping with his ex...so i moved all of my stuff out. WHAT DO I DO NOW?????"

"you should probably get tested, and soon...i think i might have an STD."

"god is telling me that we shouldn't be together anymore."

"fuck you! fuck you! i can't believe you hate the sight of me so much that you would [play french horn on the top of mount everest]!* what the fuck were you thinking? did you seriously think that [creating that unholy atonal sequence]* would do anything to put you in my good graces again? fuck you. i can't believe you!"

regarding the asterisk, do you really think i'm going to list my transgressions in that quote? of course not, for i was right and she was wrong. plus, listing such actions would make me look bad, and the commentary i would be forced to provide to clear my good name just wouldn't be worth the effort. so you'll have to trust me here. and since you are here, and you know that i am a good guy, you'll trust me, right?

other men say it better than...

i.

but maybe i'm not a man. masculine? sure. i haven't shaved in a day in a half, and i'm the victim of a shadow of five o'clock nature, and then some. i'm watching football on the television, and i really don't care about either team, but it's a man's sport, and it's also a man's sport to watch football. does this make me a man? i think of women solely as vehicles of sexual gratification, and i like getting my dick sucked. all of these characteristics make one a man, but for some reason, i don't feel like one.

i drank eight beers last night, and i also smoked a joint. i masturbated. i fell asleep on my couch and woke up at one o'clock this afternoon. narratives as such piece themselves together to form a synthesis of consciousness(es)--most people refer to this as life, but what i just described is hardly living. i drank the eight beers while sitting at a laptop and typing meaningless combinations of letters and numbers into cells on a spreadsheet, and i smoked the joint shortly before passing out on my couch while an episode of the simpsons i've seen dozens of times already ran its course on my twenty-inch television that i paid eighty bucks for at the big box discount retailer on the edge of town. back in my glory days, a girl and i exchanged emails while my band was on tour; she fell in love with the fact that i was out doing something with my life instead of sitting around drinking eight beers and smoking a joint before passing out on my couch with the simpsons on the tube. granted, her perception of "doing something with life" probably didn't take into consideration the fact that "doing something with life" consisted of getting redneck drunk on a nightly basis, putting cigarettes out on various parts of my body, hooking up with cute curly-haired blonde girls from fort collins, and (if the reader hasn't picked up on it already) general decadence. but hey, i was doing something with my life! [i'd footnote this if i could, but i can't, so i won't. i got back to town from tour, and the aforementioned girl and i went on a date. we held hands and went to a park and did some other mushy stuff, but maybe i came on too strong or something? for we never saw each other again. who cares? she lent me the perks of being a wallflower, which i guess is a favorite book of popular girls, and popular she was. i guess these girls just feel a stirring in their soul for the "shy person," and they wish that they were able to associate themselves with that idea, but they can't because they have to live up to the rules that society dictates: type a drinks like a fish and makes out with three hundred guys per year and sleeps with six of them and can't find one to fall in love with because all of these guys are also type a and most likely douchebags. fuck it.]

at least i woke up this morning without a hangover. except i didn't even wake up this morning--it was 1:07 past noon. at least i have that going for me, nowadays that i don't have any type a girls thinking that i'm "doing something with life." you know, i'd do something with my life, but it would mean giving up drinking eight beers by myself and smoking a joint before passing out on my couch. and i don't think i'm ready to do that.

toby keith urban legends

it's 2:30 in the morning, and i'm "working." i put that word in quotes because i've been here for two hours, and i haven't done a lick of work. i'm all alone in my cubicle, all alone in the office. out of sheer boredom and laziness, i figured i should start a new blog. my last blog, the summer of sabbath, failed miserably. actually, i was just too embarrassed to update it after my last entry, since the girlfriend i had so affectionately discussed in less than two sentences dumped me shortly after i clicked the orange "publish post" button at the bottom of the screen. these things happen. it also happens that the girlfriend-no-longer still pokes me in the eye with needles at every opportunity (for those who might think i'm a masochist, the previous sentence is to be taken metaphorically, duh). i'm not sure she means to do this, but it happens anyways. i generally do what i can to avoid her, but encounters are inevitable, as we share the same group of friends. actually, i quit hanging out with my friends so that i wouldn't have to be around her. am i a pussy or what?

in any case, i've fallen in lust with girl x, so why should i care? not that i have a chance with girl x, but man, she's hot. sexy. she knows it, and she uses it to her advantage. flamboyant-yet-naturally-colored hair, eyes ablaze with intent to which most discerning folks would hesitate to attach the word "good," and a vagina that i'm sure features little more than a landing strip for the smallest of passenger planes. her face is approximately three inches from mine when we converse. she knows. the sad fact about this situation is that it's not about confidence or intelligence or good looks. i possess all of those--in varying quantities, of course. i just don't have a chance with girl x, and that's all i'm gonna say about it.

i'm not sure if anybody reads blogs like these. i didn't go to school for creative writing like some of my friends did, but maybe i have what it takes to capture one's attention, to gain regular readers. i certainly have a catchy name for my blog. black magic carpetbagger. i live and die by the before and after: toby keith urban legends, big game cock block party of five, beer-battered women's shelter...yeah, i could go on. do people like cleverness? i do. would i read this blog? probably, but then i might say, "oh dear, what a mess." or maybe i wouldn't. maybe instead it would be more along the lines of "HELL YEAH HOLY SHIT THIS GUY IS MORE INTRIGUING THAN BUKOWSKI." god, i really write like bukowski, except that he was a badass, what with his eight thousand women and eight thousand whiskeys and coke and eight thousand dollars debt at the horse racing track and my eight thousand reasons as to why bukowski was a badass. i have zero women, but my fridge is full of beer, and i have an unopened bottle of evan williams at my disposal. maybe i'll get drunk. in any case, i was originally discussing my audience before i went all finnegan's wake...maybe i'll upload hot freak folk or sludge metal albums and people will find my blog that way. worth a shot, i suppose.

my conscience is telling me that i should start working. but where did listening to my conscience ever get me? or, for that matter, what did it get me? you cannot win in this type a world as a conscientious human being (in layman's terms: a passive nice guy), which should be dictionary.com's second or third entry for the guy with the halo who sits on your right shoulder and bickers with the guy with the pitchfork-shaped guitar churning out soul-crushing stoner riffs on your left shoulder. but tonight, i will listen to the good guy and i won't have sex until marriage and i won't drink until i'm 21 and i won't drive faster than the speed limit and i won't do drugs and i won't lust after lustworthy figures of femininity and i will read my daily scripture and all the other things the good guy tells you to do that i would probably hear and remember if i actually took the time to listen to him instead of trying to one-up mr. mephisto on my left shoulder in the guitar-off at the end of the world. good guy, you win. this time. but beware...