Thursday, March 29, 2007


Last night in town. Short post because I have company. Me and mihael just shaved our mustaches together. I know its earlybut it was a bonding moment.Now time for drinking, and watching arrested development.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

I totally spaced!

I got a freakin tattoo! Holy crap! Isn't it A W E S O M E?
It'sbased on a peice of art called "King Alcohol and his Prime Minister"
This is the Prime Minister, as I drew him. The lettering to the right is XRMX, which, according to Tolkien's runes, translates to GREG, my uncles name. But don't tell him. He'd think that shit was ridiculous.
I got it a few days ago, and now its all peeling and itchy.
Go me!

More Moving

I've packed probably 60% of my things, and I move in less than two days. Its strange, it seems that everything in the room has some kind of emotional attatchment. The fossilized worm holes David gave me, the numerous pewter figurines my mother bought me a few years back, the other crap that was bought. I can't be bothered to remember what it is.

I no longer look at the hole Michael put in the bathroom wall with anger, but with mixed feelings of nostalgia and and sadness.

Yes, Michael, you put a hole in the bathroom wall. Right next to the toilet. You were pretty drunk, but I know it was you. You were the only person in there. I'm not mad, which is why I never mentioned it. I don't even know why I said "no longer" because I wasn't angry in the first damn place. As a matter of fact, the only thing I remember thinking about that hole was "Huh, that musta been Wiley."

Sean gave me a lock of hair, Michael is gonna give me Superarmatron, which iscool. I suggested I take his girlfriend instead, but he wasn't too keen on that. Niether was she. Fuckers.

Also, and this is strange to me, but moving seems to be an aphrodisiac. Women with little/no interest in me before are now calling me, and attempting sex. It certainly is interesting, however, irritating, since the one person I wanna have sex with won't have sex with me. Fuckers.

Anyhew, moving is a pain in the ass and I know that there will be a big ass buncha wrinkles in all my favorite suit coats and that's gonna piss me off.

But hey, onward and upward.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Mustaches and Moving

I should be packing my things into boxes and bags right now, but instead I'm here, talking to you, my loyal readers. All two of you. Michael, stand up and give the folks a wave. I wonder if that chris fella still reads my blogs.

Moving on. If therre is a pun there, its accidental.

I'm moving to Spokane, Washinton, where I will have little-no internet access. Be prepared for even fewer updates, my fine feathered friends.

Everyone is asking me how I feel about moving. Am I nervous? Am I excited? Scared? Happy?
A little bit of everything. Mostly excitement. The three weeks I spent in Washington were the happiest I've had in a long time. A little bit of sadness. I know I'm gonna miss Mike and Sean and Trisha and Paul... but thats about it. Fuck the rest of you people.

And as for my mustache, its a tangled mess of peach fuzz and woe.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Mystery Soap

So. Its been in my shower for almost a week now. A half-used peice of soap, accompainied by a blue, disposable shaving razor. It is green. My soap is blue. I do not know what it smells like, because I have not smelled it. It is covered by tiny hairs that look like what you get when you shave your face.

Does anyone have any idea when mystery soap came from?

More Shitty Fiction

He walks into the second-hand store, a wad of bills in his hip pocket. The girl behind the counter is popping her gum noisily and reading a magazine, some teenybopper deal. Her skirt is short, and when she hops up onto the counter, he catches a glimpse of her panties.

“Today might not be so bad,” he thinks.

He walks over to the bookshelf, far in the back, past the clothes from 1986, past the broken toys and the dusty furniture. The books are his favorite part of the store. He loves browsing each title, reading a little bit, picking and choosing which he will buy, lifting each dusty, ten-year-old paperback and flipping through it, a lifetime at a glance.

The books don’t care that he still works at Burger King after six years. They don’t care that he drinks too much. They never complain when he watches G4 for hours on end. They were his friends, sometimes, his lovers. They are what he has. And this is his favorite place to hang out with them; here against the back wall of a dingy thrift store that has the smell of old furniture and laundry detergent. This is his place.

He sits down, cross-legged, facing the bookshelf. He pops his knuckles one-by-one, and drags his finger across each spine slowly, reading each title, imagining what was in each book, imagining what the author was like, why they had written what they had written, whether they were alive or dead.

Footsteps, and he shoves his face into a book. Some thriller by Dean Koontz, an author he despises, but that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to look at this person, this invader of his space. He wants to ignore them until they go away, so he can go back to enjoying his solitude.

The girl behind the counter pops her gum. He jumps, and glances towards the intruder. All he sees is feet, flip-flop clad, with red painted toenails, and little white flowers on the big toes. “A woman!” he thinks, and quickly looks back to his book. He is nervous now, and starts quickly reading.

A moment passes.

“Whatchya got there?” She asks him. For a moment, he contemplates ignoring her, but then glances up. She is wearing a knee-length skirt, and a white, short-sleeved blouse. She is pretty, green-eyed, hair in a ponytail.

He flips the book over in his hand, and reads “Dean Koontz, Eye of the Beholder.”

“You like him?”

“Not really, its just what I picked up.” Because I wanted to ignore you, he continues internally.

“Yeah, he’s kind of, what the word…” She pauses and puts a finger against the side of her nose, “Formulaic?”

“I agree.” He says. She smiles, so does he.

“Do you read a lot?” She asks.

“Yeah, its what I do, you know?”

“Have you ever read any Burroughs?”

“William or Edgar?”

She laughs. “Edgar.”

“No. Is he good?” He puts the Koontz back on the shelf.

“The best! Pick up Princess of Mars. You won’t regret it.”

“I will.” He says. Realizing this girl was there to stay, and that his haven had been taken over, he stood, shook her hand, and left.

It wasn’t until he was in his car that he realized she might have been interested in him. He quickly steps out of the car, and making long, fast strides, walks back into the store.

The girl behind the counter is gone still there with her gum. The out-of-style clothing, the stinky furniture, the broken toys, are all still there. The books, his old friends, are still there, but the girl is gone. There is no trace of her, except for a pair of footprints in the dust in front of the bookshelf, and a book turned sideways on the shelf.

He picks it up. It is Princess of Mars. He walks to the counter, buys it, and on his way out, opens to the first chapter.

Above the blob of text, written in blue ink:


He smiles, and tucks the book into his back pocket. “Today might not be so bad.” He thinks.

Other stuff

Mustache is really pathetic. I've been told that I have dirt on my upper lip, and someone asked me if I had just given a rimjob. Nice.

Don't remember a lot of last night, however, there is an empty bag of Cheez-itz, so we all know I ate well.

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Inspired by Heywood

My aunt Heywood told me to write what you know.

Here goes.

It's late. The only light in the room is the pulsing television. He sits in his armchair, remote in one hand, genitals loosely cupped in the other. There is an advertisement for "natural male enhancement" on the tube. He flips the channel. Same advertisement. He wonders if the world is trying to tell him something, and glances at his junk. He shrugs, and changes the channel again.

What time is it? The red glowing clock reads 3:45. He sighs at the thought of another sleepless night. What keeps him up? He isn't sure. A vague sense of dissatisfaction that he can't seem to shake haunts him. He stands up, puts on pants. They are dirty, like the pair near the end of the couch, and the other pair thrown over the back of the chair, and the two other pairs stuffed into the hamper with half a dozen t-shirts and countless socks. The light from the TV plays onto a studio apartment of squalor. The bluish glow of the Zenith lights clothes, half-eaten take-out food, empty bottles, a Sega Genesis, all.

Now wearing pants, he takes a swig from the almost empty bottle of grape juice in the fridge, and grabs a shirt that is halfway in the sink. It's wet, and he drops it on the ground. There is another shirt wadded up on the couch. He puts it on inside out, and grabs his coat. He steps outside of his second-story apartment. The air is cold. His neighbor has left a bottle of milk on the porch. The smell hits him like a punch to the face. He winces, and shakes his head. "Who does that?" He wonders, and disgusted, he stomps down the stairs, walking like he has a purpose.

He wanders the streets for almost an hour before deciding to turn back for home. He has passed houses, some dark and empty, others alight with early risers getting ready for work, others still awake from the day before, like him. He has passed storefronts, closed up and dark, waiting patiently for 9 o'clock, just like every other day. He has passed the sleeping homeless, and wondered how they got so low. It is almost 5 am when he sees the 7-11. It is a little out of the way, but he decides to walk to it and buy himself some bad-tasting coffee, maybe one of those pastries from the damaged-goods rack.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out three bucks and change. He wonders when the last time he wore these pants was, and what he bought, to leave three bucks and change. He can't remember. He might have been drunk.

At the 7-11 the only person is the guy behind the counter, a young middle-eastern looking kid with a thick goatee and dreadlocks. He nods to the kid, and the kid nods back. The kid's nametag reads "Greg," but he is too far away to be able to read it. He pours the coffee, stirs in some sugar.

The bell rings, and two more people walk in. It looks at first glance to be a mother-son couple, until the man kisses the woman deeply. He winces when he realizes that this is a romantic couple with such a severe age gap that the woman can pass, at first glance, for the man's mother. "Disgusting," he thinks.

There is nothing interesting on the damaged goods rack, and so he just pays for the coffee, which takes all of his three dollars. He sips at it slowly as the world finishes waking up. Cars are passing him now, their drivers wiping sleep from their eyes and sipping at their own shitty cups of coffee.

He walks back to his apartment. The TV is now showing morning news instead of infomercials. He turns it off, and shakes his head. The morning news reminds him of her, though he doesn't know why. Was she the source of his sleepless nights? He hadn't been able to sleep a full night since she killed herself, but he had barely known her.

A few days together, a night at the movies, then he had been told by a mutual friend. She had hung herself in the doorway to her bathroom, a bathroom he had never seen. A bathroom he often wondered about on these sleepless nights. He wondered what kind of shampoo she had used. It had smelled nice. He wondered if there was toothpaste on the counter, or if she had been the type to keep her bathroom spotless.

He finishes the coffee and let the Styrofoam cup fall where it will. The red glowing clock reads 6:23. He crawls into bed and stares at the ceiling, wondering what she would have felt like beside him, what she would have said. It is the ideal relationship, they never argue, the things he says are always funny. The only thing missing is that other half of warmth in the bed.

The caffeine in the coffee keeps him awake, and he stares at the popcorn ceiling, talking to himself, knowing somewhere in the back of his head that tomorrow would play out the same way: Work, home, TV, walking, and maybe a stop at the 7-11, for some foul tasting coffee.


So, there was this crazy curly hair in my vison, and my thought was:

"Ah, my eye brows are taking over my face!"

But it was just a defector from the army atop my head mingling with his buddies in my eyebrow.

Two Things

First, my mustache is coming in very nicely, that is, if you like pre-pubescent Mexican boys.

Second, I'm moving to Spokane, Washington! So be ready for a couple of blogs describing the moving process. Things should be a lot of fun.

Friday, March 02, 2007

The Worst Night of my Life

It is evening time. I'm hanging out with Mike, The Sean, and Ryan. Ryan has weed. We all got booze. Tonight is gonna be good. Really good.

Ryan bailed. He had to plow his girlfriend. He took his weed. That was lame, however, we still had booze, and Mike knew of two parties we could attend. We opt for the second, a "desert" party, over a birthday party for a friend of ours.

I decide to drive, since my buddies have already started drinking. Before we leave, Michelle says that we should be careful, because cops are always out and about, and I express doubts about the desert party, saying that tonight feels like "the night."

We set out, with two bottles of wine and a bottle of whiskey in tow, into the desert. I figure that this will be an hour's drive, at most, to get to this place. I think it will be someone's house. I have brought a Space Ghost costume, in case the party isn't crazy enough and I need to add some craziness.

During the drive, we come upon a bit of traffic, and wonder why there is traffic in the middle of a Thursday night. We see a car on its side, with people climbing out of it. We missed the accident by minutes. Sean expresses feelings that this could be the reaon for our early apprehension. Reassured that this is the last of the bad things that will happen tonight, we travel on, singing.

Two hours later, we are in a Quik-e-Mart type place, asking for directions. I'msure we've passed this place, because, c'mon, it can't be THAT far into the desert. However, the fella behind the counter says that it is a stretch further down the road, and displays some knowledge of the party. When we go outside, we find that Mike, who is pretty intoxicated by this point, has peed on an electrical outlet. It is smoking and sputtering. We jump into truck and speed into the desert.

We finally arrive. The place is not a house, but intead a bar. Mike and I are pissed about this, as we are not 21. The Sean, however, walks inside and buys a beer. Mike and I stay outside, drinking our wine and complaining about the shitness of the bar. We meet a beared mescaline dealer with his friend's dog. We are drunk enough to want to touch his beard. He lets us. He leaves. Me and Mike steal a bit of Sean's whiskey.

This is where things het a bit hazy.

We are all three inside now, after learning that the bar doesn't card. We meet Mike's friend that invited us to the party. I yell at him for telling us about the shitty bar.

I'm with The Sean, he is drinking beer. I steal from some him and feel like I want to puke. I remember I hate beer. Mike and I both get ourselves some whiskey shots, and don't realize until several days later that we were severely overcharged. A girl with glasses starts hitting on Michael, Michael responds postively. It is a total case of beer goggles. She invites us to play pool, and we do. I leave before the game is over, and go to find The Sean.

The Sean is peeing on someone's SUV. I yell at him to stop, and he takes the bottle in his hand, breaks it on a rock, and attacks me with it. I throw him into the dirt and run away tofind Michael. Michael is still talking to glasses girl. We head head outside, and meet a blonde guy that I want to beat up. I can't really remember what he was saying, but I was pissed.

We see The Sean talking to a fat girl with a dog. When I glance back, he is making out with her pretty intensely. I laugh. I walk over to truck again, and steal more if Sean's whiskey. Michael is with me. We complain about how Sean almot killed me and is the only one of the three of us to get some action. We drink more whiskey. In anger, I kick my truck, and realize that I have probably broken my foot. I hobble away from Michael, and to a girl nearby.

She is talking to a guy. I don't remember how this conversation at all. All I remember is me grabbing his shirt and hitting him in the neck. He throw his glass down and gets beer in my shoe. It stays soggy the rest of the night. Michael breaks up the fight, and we get Sean, who is in the back smoking.

We leave the bar. It is approx. 2 am. Mike is yelling at The Sean, about how I could have been killed and how Sean is a shitty friend for abandoning me. Sean apolgizes profusely, Mike continues yelling. Sean tells us to hit him, so I do. So does Mike. Soon everything is quiet in truck, and everything is okay, until I start passing out. We get some Del Taco, I sober up a little bit. We make it home without dying.

This happened over a month ago. Sean's neck still hurts. I'm still angry about that night. I'm never going into the desert again.

It's March!

And that means two things. You gotta pour a little booze for Cesaer on the fifteenth, and it's time for March Mustache Madness!

I shaved my entire face on Febuary 28th, and will continue to shave everything except my upper lip until the final day of March!

I will make random posts describing the progress of my 'stache, as well as a picture of the end product. Don't expect too much, though, I only have like eight hairs on my upper lip.

So yeah. March Mustache Madness. Good times.

Thursday, March 01, 2007

Dirty Rotten Liar!

Yeah. I'm not writing all of that crazy shit down. Nu-uh. So instead, I will list all of the crazy things I've done, grouped by what night they happened. In the future, drunk/strange stories will be written in full, sometime soon after they happen. I refuse to list "Drunken phone calls" as crazy behavior, because I do that every time I get drunk without question, so its not really that bad.

First Drunk:
Removed pants
Stole ice cream/cookies from a crippled girl
Tried to have sex with said crippled girl
Threaten to beat and rape three people
Peed all over somone's bathroom
Broke the same person's futon bed
Smoked an entire pack of camel wides minus two
Tried to have sex with a girl whose boyfriend had died less than two weeks prior

Jon's House:
There are two stories about Jon's house, but I can't sort them out in my memory. Here are the things I did:
Rolled down a hill two times on purpose risking severe bodily harm each time
Picked up and carried a stranger around
Tried to have sex with Trisha, alot
Sat in the bed of my truck and talked to some bum about someone I had never met
Made out with The Sean
Cuddled with The Sean
Let someone as drunk as I was drive my truck without my supervision
I must have gotten naked at one point because I woke up in The Sean's clothes

Lemon House:
Like Jon's house, Lemon House has too many instances, most of which are boring, to recall in full. Actually, nothing crazy has ever happened to me at Lemon House, except I saw Michelle's breasts, but then again, so did everyone else. Also I ate an entire loaf of bread.

Trisha's House:
Showed The Sean my right testicle
Got in a fight with some lame bro-hoes, about calling one of them a bitch. At one point, I declared that they were murderers, seeing as they had killed my buzz. At that point they became "Buzz killing bastards!"
Peed into the pool with Michael, and crossing our streams of urine

Michael's Mom's House:
Broke my phone when i tried to swim and make phone calls on my cell phone. It never worked right again.
Got naked, more than once. We all did, I think. What's with all the male nudity? Gay.
Made a bunch of music. Called it Squelch Gun.

Josh's House:
Coughed bong water all over the living room
Nearly died in the bathroom from a coughing fit from said bong
Had a gun held to my head, which I learned later was fake
Heard about my girlfriend making out with someone, didn't care
Heard about Mike kicking my girlfriend in the face, didn't care
Had drunken sex, passed out in the middle of it, woke up sometime later, and it was still happening. My thoughts were: I can do this. The best part of wakin' up, is fuckin' dirty sluts!

Then there was desert night, soon to be a blog all unto itself. If you're a friend and you see something wrong/ommitted, gimme a heads up.

Also, re-reading those, I realize they aren't that crazy. I need better drinkin' stories.