I got a new friend request. Fuck. Yes. I am slowly conquering Suicide Girls one member at a time.
I don't know why, but I seldom send friend requests. In fact, I only have once, and the box just a little bit below this one informs me that the one friend request I've sent, my little experiment, is still pending. So don't take offense to my failure to send you one.
Of course, I suppose you wouldn't, because you, hypothetical person that you are, are not even reading this. I forget sometimes that I invented you to satisfy my ego and to force myself to give my silly little musings substance. But oh, despair not, hypothetical person, for you are truly the greatest of my creations.
I started a new job last week. I'm officially a Social Worker now, and I'm still amazed at the path life has thus far taken me. That said, it's really, really fucking rad.
Do I use italics too much?
I don't know why, but I seldom send friend requests. In fact, I only have once, and the box just a little bit below this one informs me that the one friend request I've sent, my little experiment, is still pending. So don't take offense to my failure to send you one.
Of course, I suppose you wouldn't, because you, hypothetical person that you are, are not even reading this. I forget sometimes that I invented you to satisfy my ego and to force myself to give my silly little musings substance. But oh, despair not, hypothetical person, for you are truly the greatest of my creations.
I started a new job last week. I'm officially a Social Worker now, and I'm still amazed at the path life has thus far taken me. That said, it's really, really fucking rad.
Do I use italics too much?
I had one helluva morning. And no, not in a good way. And in a tangent, I do so adore the strength and focus one draws upon words when they are rendered in italics.
So first, my car broke down the other night. I can no longer remember which night, I know only that it's also the the night Chicago died. Anyway, the wheels be broken down (don't ask me what's wrong... something electrical?), which means I'm back to bussing it to work again for the time being. Work is in Peoria, and I live in the "Central Corridor" which means I'm spending alot of time on the bus.
This morning I awoke (yes, I was asleep at work--fuck it) to find that it was raining. Steadily. And since I could get ahold of no one for a ride, I realized to my chagrin that I'd have to walk two miles in the damn rain to get to 67th and Olive, which is as far as the bus goes (I was on 80th).
Fortunately, one of my clients loaned me an umbrella (the same one that attacked me two weeks ago--go figure), and so I set off on my journey, and immediately discovered that not only was it raining, but it was also colder than a witch's teat outside.
However, having made up my mind to accomplish my task, I played some Mogwai on the iPod and trudged on. Bitterly. For some time I had to walk carefully on mud, and when I got to some pavement again, I thought of this:
...As I felt the pavement beneath my feet
I trudged on through the raining defeat...
Back to my narrative: About third of the way there, a girl approached me (apparently she pulled over her car and parked it quickly, which I couldn't see due to my psychotic's umbrella). The girl, whose name was Stephanie, offered my a lift and assured me she wouldn't be kidnapping me, as she is a "Jesus freak". No, seriously. She really said just that. They're actually calling themselves that now, I guess.
Stephanie told me that she wants to get her Master's degree in bullshi, sorry, Theology, and then start her own Christian version of CPS, where I assume the goal will be to subvert children by preaching to them as they pull them away from abusive, drunken fathers while explaining that their daddies wouldn't hit them if they weren't sinners.
Pleasant enough, Stephanie dropped me off and continued on with her life, and I found that my bus was waiting for me. Triumphantly I knocked upon the door and watched in growing irritation as the bus driver ignored me for nearly five minutes while I stood, wet and shivering, in the rain (the umbrella only kept my head dry). Finally Le Douche, as I've taken to calling him, opened the door and said only, "You got four minutes."
"Great, I'll be right back!" I replied positively and stepped into Diamond Shamrock and rounded myself up a bearclaw and a hot chocolate, and as I was exiting the door, I watched in horror as Le Douche pulled away, completely abandoning his fellow human being. Stunned, I could only yell and swear, until finally I took off running, as a plan formed in my head.
Onward I ran (after stopping at the light to wait for it to change). Much like in a Cowboy movie, my plan was to head the bus off at the pass (or a residential street that I know the bus turns out of after cruising through the neighborhood a bit). Spilling cocoa on my hand, I ran as best I could while managing an umbrella, unfortunately I came up about 100 yards too short, or about 12 seconds if I was still in shape and dressed for the occasion in a high school track team.
You win this time, Le Douche, but this isn't over yet.
Yelling obscenities at Le Douche and cursing God, I turned back and waited at the bus stop for the next bus. A few moments later the 67 appeared, which took me to Glendale. I drew forth my Bus Book, and upon examining that arcane tome of runic wonders I discovered that the next bus would not arrive for another thirty minutes.
Finding a dry spot beneath the eave of a probation office, I sat down in cold, bitter defeat, to listen to Mogwai and resigned myself to waiting it out.
It was then that I realized that unseen forces are conspiring against me.
After about 15 minutes the bus arrived, and the driver, being much more of the charitable sort than Le Douche allowed me on to wait in the transport's dry warmth, and eventually I got home while pretending to listen to some old man babble about everyone riding horses to save the environment.
He also said "fuck" alot.
So first, my car broke down the other night. I can no longer remember which night, I know only that it's also the the night Chicago died. Anyway, the wheels be broken down (don't ask me what's wrong... something electrical?), which means I'm back to bussing it to work again for the time being. Work is in Peoria, and I live in the "Central Corridor" which means I'm spending alot of time on the bus.
This morning I awoke (yes, I was asleep at work--fuck it) to find that it was raining. Steadily. And since I could get ahold of no one for a ride, I realized to my chagrin that I'd have to walk two miles in the damn rain to get to 67th and Olive, which is as far as the bus goes (I was on 80th).
Fortunately, one of my clients loaned me an umbrella (the same one that attacked me two weeks ago--go figure), and so I set off on my journey, and immediately discovered that not only was it raining, but it was also colder than a witch's teat outside.
However, having made up my mind to accomplish my task, I played some Mogwai on the iPod and trudged on. Bitterly. For some time I had to walk carefully on mud, and when I got to some pavement again, I thought of this:
...As I felt the pavement beneath my feet
I trudged on through the raining defeat...
Back to my narrative: About third of the way there, a girl approached me (apparently she pulled over her car and parked it quickly, which I couldn't see due to my psychotic's umbrella). The girl, whose name was Stephanie, offered my a lift and assured me she wouldn't be kidnapping me, as she is a "Jesus freak". No, seriously. She really said just that. They're actually calling themselves that now, I guess.
Stephanie told me that she wants to get her Master's degree in bullshi, sorry, Theology, and then start her own Christian version of CPS, where I assume the goal will be to subvert children by preaching to them as they pull them away from abusive, drunken fathers while explaining that their daddies wouldn't hit them if they weren't sinners.
Pleasant enough, Stephanie dropped me off and continued on with her life, and I found that my bus was waiting for me. Triumphantly I knocked upon the door and watched in growing irritation as the bus driver ignored me for nearly five minutes while I stood, wet and shivering, in the rain (the umbrella only kept my head dry). Finally Le Douche, as I've taken to calling him, opened the door and said only, "You got four minutes."
"Great, I'll be right back!" I replied positively and stepped into Diamond Shamrock and rounded myself up a bearclaw and a hot chocolate, and as I was exiting the door, I watched in horror as Le Douche pulled away, completely abandoning his fellow human being. Stunned, I could only yell and swear, until finally I took off running, as a plan formed in my head.
Onward I ran (after stopping at the light to wait for it to change). Much like in a Cowboy movie, my plan was to head the bus off at the pass (or a residential street that I know the bus turns out of after cruising through the neighborhood a bit). Spilling cocoa on my hand, I ran as best I could while managing an umbrella, unfortunately I came up about 100 yards too short, or about 12 seconds if I was still in shape and dressed for the occasion in a high school track team.
You win this time, Le Douche, but this isn't over yet.
Yelling obscenities at Le Douche and cursing God, I turned back and waited at the bus stop for the next bus. A few moments later the 67 appeared, which took me to Glendale. I drew forth my Bus Book, and upon examining that arcane tome of runic wonders I discovered that the next bus would not arrive for another thirty minutes.
Finding a dry spot beneath the eave of a probation office, I sat down in cold, bitter defeat, to listen to Mogwai and resigned myself to waiting it out.
It was then that I realized that unseen forces are conspiring against me.
After about 15 minutes the bus arrived, and the driver, being much more of the charitable sort than Le Douche allowed me on to wait in the transport's dry warmth, and eventually I got home while pretending to listen to some old man babble about everyone riding horses to save the environment.
He also said "fuck" alot.
When Christians speak of their relationship with God, they seem completely fucking crazy to me. Just imagine if instead of "God", they said "Ernie".
I was reading this article when I realized they're wasting their time, as God has no control over computers.
I don't understand why Christians have to "Evangelize". It's annoying, and even the word is kind of scary. It has occured to me in the past that all these people really do is push people away. Someone once told me, "this way people know we're here!" Jesus Christ, give us some credit, man. We're heathens, not retards.
Anyway, next time you're virtually pinned down by an evangelist on a street corner in Tuscon, remember: "Jesus died for your sins, bro!"
I was reading this article when I realized they're wasting their time, as God has no control over computers.
I don't understand why Christians have to "Evangelize". It's annoying, and even the word is kind of scary. It has occured to me in the past that all these people really do is push people away. Someone once told me, "this way people know we're here!" Jesus Christ, give us some credit, man. We're heathens, not retards.
Anyway, next time you're virtually pinned down by an evangelist on a street corner in Tuscon, remember: "Jesus died for your sins, bro!"
My friend Ian knows alot of shit about music, and I think his favorite word is retarded.
I went a Necronauts show tonight at the Modified, and while there, I decided to strike up a conversation with a girl, as is my wont. What I didn't consider was that the music was so fucking loud I wouldn't even be able to hear myself speak, so she didn't realize I was trying to talk to her, then I tried to get a little closer, and then she turned around, and I swear to god, the look on her face was akin to what I imagine serial rapists see.
Needless to say I apologized profusely, and after the music we chatted briefly, and I got her name, and then she left and it was like, "ok then, nice to meet you too," and she was gone.
... It was a bummer.
But hey, the Necronauts were great. Afterward, I went and got drunk, as is my wont.Modified
I went a Necronauts show tonight at the Modified, and while there, I decided to strike up a conversation with a girl, as is my wont. What I didn't consider was that the music was so fucking loud I wouldn't even be able to hear myself speak, so she didn't realize I was trying to talk to her, then I tried to get a little closer, and then she turned around, and I swear to god, the look on her face was akin to what I imagine serial rapists see.
Needless to say I apologized profusely, and after the music we chatted briefly, and I got her name, and then she left and it was like, "ok then, nice to meet you too," and she was gone.
... It was a bummer.
But hey, the Necronauts were great. Afterward, I went and got drunk, as is my wont.Modified
It turns out that if you have a girl over, you don't have to clean your room or even change the sheets. Just do it on the couch.
If I felt inclined to call him, I think the old man would be proud; there have been what seems to be an abundance of girls lately, and that sort of thing makes him smile. Yet despite my patriarchal support, it neither makes me feel good about myself nor is it an expression of any real kind of emotion. It just makes me feel empty inside. Now, I don't want to make myself out to be a man-whore or anything, indeed, most of these girls suggest they'd like to come over before I even invite them. Pity me, for I am helpless against their feminine apparatus.
In other news, where the fuck is Cottonwood? I think I've heard of it, but I have no real understanding that it is a real place, almost as if it's in some kind of parallel dimension. Anyway, apparently Cottonwood has it's very own SG, her name is Pancatantra, and we can expect naked pictures of her to be available for our viewing pleasure within the next few months. Good times.
If I felt inclined to call him, I think the old man would be proud; there have been what seems to be an abundance of girls lately, and that sort of thing makes him smile. Yet despite my patriarchal support, it neither makes me feel good about myself nor is it an expression of any real kind of emotion. It just makes me feel empty inside. Now, I don't want to make myself out to be a man-whore or anything, indeed, most of these girls suggest they'd like to come over before I even invite them. Pity me, for I am helpless against their feminine apparatus.
In other news, where the fuck is Cottonwood? I think I've heard of it, but I have no real understanding that it is a real place, almost as if it's in some kind of parallel dimension. Anyway, apparently Cottonwood has it's very own SG, her name is Pancatantra, and we can expect naked pictures of her to be available for our viewing pleasure within the next few months. Good times.
The weekend following my birthday found me in possession of money, which after the past few weeks has become totally foreign to me. However, this also means I haven't spent too much, and the things I have purchased have *gasp* actually been worthwhile!
For instance, I purchased a multitude of compact discs this weekend. Three on Saturday, and two on Monday, to be exact. Of the five I bought, the two best hands down are the new Broken Social Scene and the Arcade Fire's Funeral. Man they're good. Funeral is just fucking fantastic, and Broken Social Scene is so good, it reaches down into my near perpetual state of misery to grab me up and make me think happy thoughts.
Anyway, if you like Indie Rock, and live in the Phoenix area, go to Stinkweeds. It rules. You need to go to Stinkweeds.
In other news, on Saturday, I got dumped by a stripper. I never thought I'd get dumped by a stripper, and that's not to say that I felt that if I did I would do the dumping, I just never really expected to ever date one.
Of course, when I say it like that, it sounds somewhat derogatory, so I must clarify that I thought she was cool, and that none of the negative stereotypes often associated with women in that profession appeared to apply to her. Unfortunately, like some other women, it seems she was fickle. Really fickle. I new her exactly a week, and in that time (while working a full time job), she decided I wasn't trying hard enough to get to know her, which I must say isn't entirely fair, as we didn't have much time. But ultimately, I guess I can't complain, since I really came out on top. I got a new cakepan out of the deal.
For instance, I purchased a multitude of compact discs this weekend. Three on Saturday, and two on Monday, to be exact. Of the five I bought, the two best hands down are the new Broken Social Scene and the Arcade Fire's Funeral. Man they're good. Funeral is just fucking fantastic, and Broken Social Scene is so good, it reaches down into my near perpetual state of misery to grab me up and make me think happy thoughts.
Anyway, if you like Indie Rock, and live in the Phoenix area, go to Stinkweeds. It rules. You need to go to Stinkweeds.
In other news, on Saturday, I got dumped by a stripper. I never thought I'd get dumped by a stripper, and that's not to say that I felt that if I did I would do the dumping, I just never really expected to ever date one.
Of course, when I say it like that, it sounds somewhat derogatory, so I must clarify that I thought she was cool, and that none of the negative stereotypes often associated with women in that profession appeared to apply to her. Unfortunately, like some other women, it seems she was fickle. Really fickle. I new her exactly a week, and in that time (while working a full time job), she decided I wasn't trying hard enough to get to know her, which I must say isn't entirely fair, as we didn't have much time. But ultimately, I guess I can't complain, since I really came out on top. I got a new cakepan out of the deal.
Yet another phonebook was delivered unto our doorstep this afternoon like some kind of mysterious orphan destined for greatness. My roommate speaks of a place where you can trade your directories for monies, and I think that I have heard that before, but I believe the process of finding said place involves summoning genies and answering riddles for mythical creatures.
So I went to the Genitorturers Fetish ball thing Saturday night, though admittedly I wasn't there to see the Genitorturers play. In fact, I didn't even realize they were a band until I had been there a few hours. Anyway, I was far too distracted by the loads of beautiful women wearing naught but their unmentionables to care that particular "music".
Sometime between the third or fourth girl that said I was "gorgeous" and that blonde muse who wanted to make out with me for a picture I realized that buying an Italian silk tie was one of the greatest investments I've ever made. In fact, I've decided I'm going to start a little collection. Suffice to say, I now know why DapperGatsby wears suits all the time.
Anyway, now I'm all outta cash, and desperately need to find a way to hustle some more... but no worries, I always figure out something.
So I went to the Genitorturers Fetish ball thing Saturday night, though admittedly I wasn't there to see the Genitorturers play. In fact, I didn't even realize they were a band until I had been there a few hours. Anyway, I was far too distracted by the loads of beautiful women wearing naught but their unmentionables to care that particular "music".
Sometime between the third or fourth girl that said I was "gorgeous" and that blonde muse who wanted to make out with me for a picture I realized that buying an Italian silk tie was one of the greatest investments I've ever made. In fact, I've decided I'm going to start a little collection. Suffice to say, I now know why DapperGatsby wears suits all the time.
Anyway, now I'm all outta cash, and desperately need to find a way to hustle some more... but no worries, I always figure out something.
It's looking more and more like that Burlesque show won't be happening for me. My friend Lance forgot about it (for shame!) and incidentally now has a date tomorrow night. Which is actually really cool for him because he doesn't date much, and he could certainly do with some action, but where does that leave yours truly? Alone and at home, more likely than not.
I have no automobile of my own you see, and bussing it out to fucking Tempe just isn't an option. I actually would not be able to get home. It's quite unfortunate. I've called my remaining friends with cars to see if they'd like to go, but it looks like nothing shall come of it. My only hope is to try and borrow my little sister's car... but I ain't holding my breath.
Unless one of you wants to take me?
Normally I wouldn't consider it a big deal, y'know, life goes on, but I feel like if I miss this, I'll really be missing out on something... plus last time I had a lot of fucking fun.
...Seriously though, if you live in the area of 19th Ave and Glendale...
I have no automobile of my own you see, and bussing it out to fucking Tempe just isn't an option. I actually would not be able to get home. It's quite unfortunate. I've called my remaining friends with cars to see if they'd like to go, but it looks like nothing shall come of it. My only hope is to try and borrow my little sister's car... but I ain't holding my breath.
Unless one of you wants to take me?
Normally I wouldn't consider it a big deal, y'know, life goes on, but I feel like if I miss this, I'll really be missing out on something... plus last time I had a lot of fucking fun.
...Seriously though, if you live in the area of 19th Ave and Glendale...
There was something I was going to say... something inspiring, something powerful, something gripping.
... but then I forgot it.
There are two constants in my life right now. One is that everyone wants my money. Two, I have no time for anything. I'm trying to think of a way to get next friday off so I can go to the Burlesque show with my friend Lance, but I've been putting it off so I can work up the nerve. It's not that I'm a pushover, but to be honest, I'm a fairly awful liar, and the only reason I feel I need to fib my way out of work is that I don't think the boss'll give me the night off to go party. But if my grandma is dying...
I spend alot of time in my own head, wondering about shit on some meager philosophical level. Pervading amongst my inquiries regarding the cosmic complexities, one question fills my mind more than any other: Where the bitches at?
Everyone is trying to find the right person, everyone is trying to get laid. This I know. And although I realize that I have plenty of time yet to settle down, it bothers me that I haven't felt any real feelings for a person in some time. Until recently I just blamed it on all those girls various inadequacies, but I wonder if it isn't my fault. Maybe my standards are simply too high, or maybe I'm just dead inside. I'm not really sure which is worse, but the latter certainly seems more formidable. If the former were the case I'll tell you all to go fuck yourselves. It's not your fault, I know, but I'd just feel the need to lash out.
I'm the type of person who isn't willing to compromise my standards; I could never be happy with that. I'm that way with my art, my music, my work (well... not quite always with the work hehe). But if I'm dead inside, what is there to do? I'm not one to go jaunting off on some crusade of personal disvovery. I leave that to better men.
... but then I forgot it.
There are two constants in my life right now. One is that everyone wants my money. Two, I have no time for anything. I'm trying to think of a way to get next friday off so I can go to the Burlesque show with my friend Lance, but I've been putting it off so I can work up the nerve. It's not that I'm a pushover, but to be honest, I'm a fairly awful liar, and the only reason I feel I need to fib my way out of work is that I don't think the boss'll give me the night off to go party. But if my grandma is dying...
I spend alot of time in my own head, wondering about shit on some meager philosophical level. Pervading amongst my inquiries regarding the cosmic complexities, one question fills my mind more than any other: Where the bitches at?
Everyone is trying to find the right person, everyone is trying to get laid. This I know. And although I realize that I have plenty of time yet to settle down, it bothers me that I haven't felt any real feelings for a person in some time. Until recently I just blamed it on all those girls various inadequacies, but I wonder if it isn't my fault. Maybe my standards are simply too high, or maybe I'm just dead inside. I'm not really sure which is worse, but the latter certainly seems more formidable. If the former were the case I'll tell you all to go fuck yourselves. It's not your fault, I know, but I'd just feel the need to lash out.
I'm the type of person who isn't willing to compromise my standards; I could never be happy with that. I'm that way with my art, my music, my work (well... not quite always with the work hehe). But if I'm dead inside, what is there to do? I'm not one to go jaunting off on some crusade of personal disvovery. I leave that to better men.
Okay. Glad I got that out of my system. Let the cleverness ensue:
The potential for journalistic kookiness (that is, kookiness in my journal) is something that I find hypothetically irresistible.What I mean by this largely, is that if I were the sort of person to know what to write whenever I sat down at this thing, whomever actually reads this besides me would find themselves virtually befuddled with baffoonery.
I daresay it would be an extravaganza.
I started another job recently. I now work for a company called, well... nevermind that. Let us just say that it is a very large behavioral health company which deals almost exclusively with the Seriously Mentally Ill (heretoforth known simply as "SMI").
Once again I find myself working as a Paraprofessional, though in a much different capacity than my previous position at that drug rehab. Basically all I do now is hang out and watch tv and make sure no one gets stabbed in the eye. Again.
One of the "consumers" at the house I was at today (who shall remain nameless so I don't get sued or lose my job) is shizophrenic (schizoaffective unspecified, i believe), and basically all he does is pace and mumble. And smoke. Or sometimes mumble and pace, depending on how he's feeling. One cool thing about him is that repeats what he hears, kind of like a big, crazy parrot.
Needless to say, it's really entertaining.
The potential for journalistic kookiness (that is, kookiness in my journal) is something that I find hypothetically irresistible.What I mean by this largely, is that if I were the sort of person to know what to write whenever I sat down at this thing, whomever actually reads this besides me would find themselves virtually befuddled with baffoonery.
I daresay it would be an extravaganza.
I started another job recently. I now work for a company called, well... nevermind that. Let us just say that it is a very large behavioral health company which deals almost exclusively with the Seriously Mentally Ill (heretoforth known simply as "SMI").
Once again I find myself working as a Paraprofessional, though in a much different capacity than my previous position at that drug rehab. Basically all I do now is hang out and watch tv and make sure no one gets stabbed in the eye. Again.
One of the "consumers" at the house I was at today (who shall remain nameless so I don't get sued or lose my job) is shizophrenic (schizoaffective unspecified, i believe), and basically all he does is pace and mumble. And smoke. Or sometimes mumble and pace, depending on how he's feeling. One cool thing about him is that repeats what he hears, kind of like a big, crazy parrot.
Needless to say, it's really entertaining.
