Just Another Day In The Life

That’s the thing about parties…

I’m a pretty predictable person. Crack open my Xbox 360 and you’d most likely find a copy of Red Dead Redemption in there. Bust open my Wii and you’ll discover a copy of Red Steel 2 in it. Pry open my DVD player and No Country For Old Men would most likely come flying out. (It’s been a very Western heavy week for me) After destroying all my technology you would find an empty can of AriZona iced tea in my sock drawer if you felt so inclined to search it. What I’m saying by all this is that my habits really define the person I am.

I’ve always felt like there’s two sides to me: the side everybody gets to see of me and the side that only I and a few select people get to see. On the outside I’m this crazy, energetic, fucked up in the head individual who is a riot at parties. To myself, I’m a quiet, soft-spoken, easy going guy who prefers to have intelligent conversations. I think we’ve all had this identity crisis at some point. I’m not really sure if I’ll grow out of it, but I’m fine with that. My close friends know who I am and my family knows who I am. But most importantly, I know who I am.

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Looking Up

You know, it seems like whenever I complain about something it stops being an issue—like when you swear to God that your TV doesn’t work and somebody manages to make it work on the first try. In my last post I talked about not being able to sleep because of my lucid nightmares that woke me up in the odd hours of the night. Lo and behold, the night after I slept very well without the slightest hint of a nightmare. I just found out my brother in Afghanistan will be back for Thanksgiving to see his family and that makes me happy. Some of the other things I bitched about are still worthy of being bitched about but bitch I will not! That last sentence makes sense, just think very carefully about it.

It’s kind of unsettling for me to write about my life going well because I haven’t done that in such a long time. But there’s not much I can complain about without being a bit of an attention whore. I finally got switched out of my statistics class which I was borderline failing to become a library assistant. The work is tedious and monotonous but it sure as shit beats stats. Another shocking thing at school is that I don’t completely hate everybody in my history class. I used to want to just eviscerate everybody in that room, but I’ve learned to actually enjoy some of their company. Yeah, most of the people in that class deserve a good punch in the mouth but I no longer feel like I should be the one who does the punching.

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Rest Less

It’s been a while since you all last heard from me. I apologize for that. I haven’t been able to sleep well in the past few months and it’s really taking its toll lately. Sleep has never been my strong suit. I haven’t had a consistent proper night’s sleep in God knows how long. The past few days I’ve been having very lucid nightmares that wake me up in the odd hours of the night—panting or even sometimes crying in a cold sweat. It’s been pretty brutal. Not to say it wasn’t already pretty taxing beforehand.

It seems like I haven’t slept in years. Maybe I need to chew some valerian root or get laid or something. Usually I just lay awake at night and think about all the stuff I shouldn’t have said. That’s the thing about hindsight; it’s the biggest bitch in the world but you always find yourself coming back to it. So I just stare at my ceiling fan kicking myself over the day’s events—debating whether or not I should start masturbating. Knock it if you want, but sometimes that’s the only thing that can get my mind off of things.

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Man of Action

Carl’s Jr.’s commercials make me sad. I know that’s a pretty fucking weird way to open up a post, but just bear with me. I’ve commented before about how the world we live in is just kind of fucked up. However, the true wake up call to fully realizing this was watching a Carl’s Jr. commercial. What cardinal sin have the good people of Carl’s Jr. committed that makes me feel depressed? Well, let’s just say it’s pretty sad that we live in a world where sex can sell a burger. Now, I’ve been to a Carl’s Jr. before and let me just say—I have not seen a remotely sexy thing walk into one of those. It wouldn’t bother me so much if this were an isolated incident, but it’s not.

Unfortunately for my mental well-being, many corporations try to sell products and goods that should never be described as sexy using attractive women. It makes me feel shitty for being a man. But then I remember that I don’t bleed out of my dick every month and I feel better. Regardless, this advertising tactic double fucks the nation. First, it makes all men look bad.

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School Daze

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…..High School….

Well, I’m back in the flesh to the proverbial hierarchy that is high school. As you may or may not know, I am a senior in high school on the road to becoming a full-fledged adult. And by that I mean I’m going to finish one set of schooling so that I can move on to another set of schooling. Whoop de fucking doo. Okay, that’s enough complaining. I think it’s time I provided my take on this.

Love it or hate, high school is a pivotal moment in our lives. It’s the point where most of us learn how to take responsibility for actions, how hard work can pay off, and how much we can hate some particular things that our bodies do at inconvenient times. It’s hard for me to believe this though because I’m not always surrounded by the most mature of thinkers. I like to fuck around, don’t get me wrong, but there definitely is a time and place for everything. True, most of my friends only go to school to see their friends and take mental images for their spank banks, but that still doesn’t make it right. I don’t necessarily learn something new every day but that doesn’t make school any less of an experience. Good or bad, it leaves a mark on you.

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100 Things to Do Before I Die

I know I’ve been MIA for the past few days, but I’ve really been working on my bucket list. I’ve compiled a list of 100 things I want to do before I die. I wanted things on my list to be within the realm of believability, to be things I wouldn’t already do (i.e. have a family), and to be things I’m sure I wouldn’t back out of. It took me a total of nine days to complete this list. I hope you enjoy it!

1. Throw a huge house party

2. Attend a wedding I wasn’t invited to

3. Apologize to somebody I’ve wronged

4. Do a back flip

5. Hop out of a moving vehicle

6. Score the winning point in a game

7. Bungee jump

8. Go to a karaoke bar

9. Churn butter

10. Build an awesome sand castle

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V-Card Blues

Why do men call it “losing their virginity”? I understand why women call it that. Or, rather, I understand it the best a man can possibly understand a woman’s motives. To a woman—not all women, mind you—their virginity is a very important part of their lives. It’s a special part of themselves they don’t want to let go of until they’ve found the perfect person to give it to. It’s like a very valuable and fragile gift that they want to keep unsullied until the time and conditions are right to capitalize on its function. You know, like a Mercedes. With guys—again, not all guys mind you—it’s a bit of a different story. Guys don’t see their virginity as something special. It’s more of a road block on the path to manhood—the last hurdle we all need to jump in order to take the plunge into whatever the fuck we’re supposed to be plunging into. It’s not like a gift; it’s more like a bad cough or incriminating evidence. We just want to fucking get rid of it as soon as heavenly possible.

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The Big 1-8

My 18^th birthday was a couple days ago. I didn’t blog about this then because killing yourself on your birthday is slightly less depressing than saying you spent it home alone—blogging. Honestly, it wasn’t anything too excited. It was a regular boring day much like every other one I’ve ever had, so I should be used to it. The amount of restrictions I had for my birthday would’ve made Alcatraz seem like a kindergarten classroom.

First and foremost, I was not allowed to have anything I asked for on my birthday. The range of things I asked for ranged from reasonable, to practical, to ridiculous. I wanted a bicycle, some comic books, a punching bag, nunchakus, a crossbow, a dart board, or a pimp hat. I would’ve been fine with just one of those. I got none of them. In fact, I didn’t really get anything. I got some money for me to decide what I want and go buy it. That may sound awesome, but I don’t like having to make decisions. I feel like they’ll come back to haunt me in some kind of fucked up, horrible repercussions in a manner reminiscent of Mass Effect 3. Oh, I also wasn’t allowed to have Mass Effect 3.

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Cold Turkey

I remember saying to myself that when I started this online journal that any of my friends who bothered reading this would find out things about me they never knew before. Now I realize two things. The first is that I need to stop talking to myself late at night within earshot of other people because it makes me sound fucking crazy. The second is that it would be near impossible to reveal stuff to my friends that they don’t already know. I’m a really open person so anybody who talks to me for more than 10 minutes has already heard some pretty fucking obscure revelations about me. There are hobos who know my masturbation schedule in intimate detail.

So, in absence of any surprising secrets that would allow me to retain any dignity, I’m going to tell you something you may already know about me: my drug habits! Or, rather, my past drug habits. Some of you [Read: the people I’ve smoked with]

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Half-hearted Attempts at Humor

Let’s face it, we all complain about our friends. Sometimes we do it more than we like to pretend that we actually do. Hell, I do it. Maybe it’s some form of delusional superiority that I’m suffering from, but I believe I’m better than most people when I complain about my friends. I’m not afraid to give my friends the B.O.T.D (Benefit Of The Doubt) when I expose their flaws. Sometimes it’s honestly not their fault. Sometimes it just plain fucking is, but that’s another story. It’s also possible that it’s because I’m not afraid to tell them to their faces when I have a problem with them. I may come off as a dick for telling them in public that I don’t like them or like certain things about them, but nobody can call me a bitch who goes behind their backs.

I remember one instance in particular that I like to refer to as “A Dreary Autumn Morning”. As poetic as it sounds, it’s not entirely accurate. The incident wasn’t so much “dreary” as it was “uncomfortable” and it took place just after noon during lunch break at school. So I took some poetic liberties with the actual setting of the incident, sue me.

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