A Letter to 2010

Dear 2010,

I feel our relationship was a hard one, and set to fail from the start.  I do not put all of the blame on you, as situations came about beyond the control of either of us.  I am certain you did not intentionally set out to destroy me and, in fact, I have come to the conclusion you simply intended to teach me, and for that, I am grateful.

You taught me that just because you have been beaten repeatedly doesn’t mean you can’t still fight.  That sometimes, 出る杭は打たれる being the hammered nail is a good thing.  It’s how you learn to pick yourself back up and be strong again.  And that is what I’ve done.  Over.  And Over.  And. Over. Again.

This entire year has been one thing after another.  I have learned I have strength I never knew I had.  I can handle life, and everything it throws at me.  I can stand strong, on my own two feet, without anyone to hold me up but G-d and myself.  I never knew that before, so thank you for teaching me that.

I learned that making excuses is inexcusable.  That everything that comes must go.  Time is an ocean, and life is the tide.  It comes in, stays for a while, and leaves again.  We are nothing more than brine shrimp, spending our time building our houses wherever the tide takes us, only to have them swept away when the tide changes, and have to build them again.

I see this now, 2010, thanks to you.  I see that, now that I know how strong I am, that I know I can overcome whatever obstacles I’m thrown, I can still succeed.  I can show a tenacity and resolve I have always been told I lack.  I can face outstanding odds and still succeed.

So here’s to you, 2010.  As everyone spends this time welcoming 2011 and wondering what will come, I reflect upon your teachings.

Cheers,

Me

Its Dating History Wednesday

Hey, look, I came up with a gimmick!  Go me!

So I was thinking today about some of the crazy “dates” I’ve been on.  Some of these memories are comical, some are tragic, and some are downright embarrassing.  What perfect fodder for me to give to you!

Note:  For those challenged at reading between the lines, implied meaning is conveniently placed between parentheses.  That’s () for those who don’t know that already.

Let’s start this story with a little bit of history:  Recently out of a horrible relationship filled with fireworks (which means we fought like cats and dogs, so of course the sex was fantastic) and wanting to explore my sexuality (which means I finally decided to do something about seeing all these crazy sexy guys and get some cock) I joined this online “dating” site (dating is in quotes because it’s a site that was designed to help men find other men who were currently horny so they could fuck without having to end up being arrested like George Michael’s and the whole Bathroomgate thing), because, let’s face it, Craigslist is great for finding a used couch/refrigerator/drug dealer, but trying to find a disease free guy…good luck.

A large chunk of the guys were strictly looking for hookups (which are stories for a completely different post)(the prior set of parentheses were not for those challenged at reading between the lines, but strictly for clarifying that this post is not about some fling filled with crazy sex had with an amazing Latin lover…not that it ever happened…and not that it couldn’t…it very well could…and might have…carry on), but some of the guys were actually looking for something a little more long-term than a one hour meet & fuck.  That’s where I met this guy…let’s call him Fuzz.  Now Fuzz, on paper, seemed like a great guy.  He had a personality, the same dry sense of humor, and was intelligent.  The fact we were both in food service was also a plus.

He invited me out one night with a group of his friends to play pool, and we wound up hanging out and talking for hours.  It seemed like things were going swell.

And then we went on a REAL date…

Firstly, having spent years in management, if I’m going to go on a date with a manager, I completely expect there to be a phone call and/or tardiness.  So the fact our 7pm dinner was pushed back to almost 9pm didn’t faze me.  I was actually prepared and waited at the coffee shop we were to meet at with a magazine and a book.  Shit happens, especially for managers of restaurants.  I didn’t expect, however, for our plans to be completely changed and for me to have to find my way into some neighborhood I’d never been to, nor even knew existed, with only a five minute time frame in order to pick him up instead of meeting at said coffee shop.  I agreed to a date, not to be a coffee delivery man.

I had planned on taking him to a great Thai place I’d scoped out with a “friend” (it’s in quotes because we had dated and had great sex and still occasionally hung out and watched porn together so, basically, she was kind of a special friend without having any benefits other than getting to listen to her moan and the like, as that would have been written “FRIEND” instead of merely “friend”) which it turns out closed at 9pm.  Apparently Fuzz didn’t like the idea of having a romantic dinner under the stars in the bed of a pickup.  Strike one, Fuzz.

So we wound up at Buffalo Wild Wings, sipping drinks, and neither of us enjoying ourselves because we couldn’t hear no matter how loud we were and we kept getting horrible looks and threatening glares from the other drunken male patrons.  Then his phone goes off.  It was a friend, “Hey, come help me fix my car!”

The date then devolved into him stripping into a wife beater (which I thought would be sexy but HOLY SHIT he had more back hair than a chimp!) and crawling around underneath a car (ok, that was kind of sexy) while I sat and chatted with his friend, who, it turns out, was a friend of mine from high school’s completely annoying little brother.

We then wound up at Jim’s (think Denny’s with better food and worse service) with his friend and his friend for four hours.  Then I took him home and got an, “I’d invite you in, but my mom’s asleep on the couch, but maybe we could…you know…park in the driveway…”  Yeah, sure, Fuzz, let’s just park in the driveway and have wild, crazy butt sex in front of the livingroom window RIGHT WHERE YOUR MOTHER CAN WATCH US FUCK!

“Sounds great, but I’ve got to be at work in an hour.”

“Oh…ok…next time, then. It was…nice…”

Cue awkward hug with a 6′ plus guy in a tiny truck and me driving away thinking “holy shit I’ve met someone worse at dating than me!”

So, why did Fuzz strike out? I mean, sure, talking about your ex who’s obsessed with you to the point of carving your name into his chest while institutionalised and the other ex of yours you set him up with but the guy really only agreed because he thought the guy was kind of hot and was hoping for some super crazy porn style three-way action was bad enough, but, seriously, there are razors for a reason. Watching that guy propose to his chick through a message shaved into his back hair was funny, but, ultimately, not something I wish to experience.

Plus, I don’t enjoy having sex with a laptop sharing bed space. I enjoy using every bit of bed space there is to use during sex, thank you very much and, unfortunately, Fuzz had this obsession with technology and had to have a gadget touching him constantly.  I asked about showering but, honestly, I was too terrified to ask about how that worked while having sex.  The laptop-on-the-bed-thing is the best case scenario.  Worst case involves a corded mouse and strange gyrations in order to play Minesweeper.

Anyone else got any crazy horrid dates they’ve been on? Care to share?

I cant stop reading this

So a couple of years ago I started reading Sluggy Freelance and fell in love with it. It wasn’t a love at first sight thing by any means. I just couldn’t get that first set of strips out of my head and finally decided to sit down and read the damned thing. This was around September of 2007. I finally finished the archives and caught up during this storyline (at which point I promptly stopped reading). That was a lot of reading.

And a lot of inspiration. Not for stories, unfortunately, although I don’t think anyone can beat Abrams’ imagination. But it makes me want to draw. Drawing has always been something I enjoy, but it’s always been something I’ve had to work at, and no one has ever supported me in it. Ever.

With music I have talent. I’m not the best musician, but if you throw an instrument at me, I can play it. I’m the same way with writing essays and mechanics. There are just certain things certain people have a knack for. Those are my things.

So why not just go forth and do one of those things I have a knack for? Because that would be easy, and I don’t like easy. I mean, yeah, the slut at the bar makes for a great one night stand, but do you really want a relationship with someone who puts out that fast?  Who else has she been with?  Do you really feel you can have a worthwhile relationship with that person?  What makes that relationship so worthwhile is the work you both put into it, not how fast you nailed it.

So I’ve decided to actually put in the work. I’ve started drawing everyday. I’m getting better but I’m nowhere near showing anything I’ve done yet to anybody.

But someday, I’ll have my story published, somewhere, with pretty pictures and action scenes, and someone will be entertained.  And that’s what makes it all worth while.

New car, fresh cash, gotta steal!

So, if you follow me on Twitter you might have heard me complaining over the weekend about the jackass who stole the beer.  He was driving a pretty new Chevy Malibu, had his whole family in the car, and stole an 18 pack of Coors Light.  That pissed me off.  I mean, it pisses me off when people steal bear, anyway, but the sheer audacity to steal it with your whole family present, kid and everything, and put it into your SHINY NEW CAR pissed me off to no end.  If you wanna steal a loaf of bread or milk or some such, cool, go for it.  I’d probably applaud you for your survival skills.  You steal a candy bar, I’ll tell you to choke on it and have a nice day.  But you wanna steal beer in front of your family and drive away in your new car…motherfucker, just stay two feet away from me and you might get lucky and I’ll just spit on you.

In other news, life at that store is boring.  The crew is quite the cast of characters, however.  Like the chick with the pink hair.  Pink hair is awesome, I’m not gonna lie.  I just wanna know why I can’t have blue hair and still have a job.  I mean, hell, I get harassed and threatened and get sent to Hell, where we have to bag ice with a fucking scoop and bucket.  I feel like the coal shoveler on the steam engines, which is, of course, the job I always wanted.*

One of these days, though, I’m probably gonna snap and kill somebody, or at the very least cuss them out but good.

Like the bitch that decided I’m not good enough to ring her up because, G-d forbid, I asked her a question.  Apparently no one really likes her, though, so I don’t feel bad.  And I’m sure as fuck not gonna feel guilty when I tell her, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not allowed to turn the pump on for anyone unless they prepay as it’s our corporate policy to help maintain low gas prices and defeat the felony of drive-off’s, whether they be accidental or otherwise.  Will that be cash or charge?”

This bitch is so anal she makes us check the dates on her cigarettes before she buys them.  Apparently she even had the audacity to open a pack before checking the date and then, upon realizing they weren’t the freshest possible cigarettes she could have purchased, had the gall to demand she be allowed to exchange them.  Um, sorry, how about NO, YOU STUPID, FAT, CUMGUZZLING CUNT!

Whew, sorry, she just really irks me, and I really wish I could say that to her.  Oh, wait, if I’m outside, off camera, and there’s no witnesses, it never happened.  I’m such a bad boy.

*Note:  This is, in fact, a true fact.  That has been my dream job since childhood.  Do not judge me.

Gay people donate to charity mother fucker, so shut the fuck up!

So at work we’re doing this whole MDA donation thing where we ask people for change or to donate $1 or $5 dollars and then give them coupons for free stuff.  A lot of people say no, which is their prerogative, and completely ok.  I asked one guy, who used to be one of my favorite customers, if he wanted to donate his 29 cents to MDA and it went like this:

Me: would you like to donate your 29 cents to MDA?

Him: What’s that?

Me: Would you like to donate your 29 cents to MDA?  It’s the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

Him: MDA…what charity’s that again?

Me: The Muscular Dystrophy Association.  You know, Jerry’s Kids.

Him: PFFT, sure, yeah, I guess, since it helps those poor kids.  But, ya know, if anyone knew about Jerry’s private sexual life aint but nobody would donate to it.

Me: *laughs*

Him: No, I’m serious.  Damn homosexuals *mumble, mumble*

Wow, really?  It’s 20fucking10, y’all.  Who the fuck says shit like that now?  And it’s unusual to hear from someone older like that.  I’m used to the overly homophobic under 35 guys who seem to think they’re just so fucking hot everybody wants to fuck them.  Yeah, no, you’re not that hot, bro, so just stop all ready.  Hell, my pink-shirt-wearing-eyebrow-tweezing-hundred-pair-of-shoes-owning priss of a boss is the same damn way.  And, really, it’s kind of funny when he’s all “I don’t mind what you do in your own time, as long as none of them touch me” so, of course, I poke him.  (With my finger.  He’s married.  Damn, you people sure think dirty.)

Of course, there were the two chicks who looked damn near identical, though the one was shorter than the other, and I asked if they were related…that fucking pissed me off.  “What, you think all white people look alike?”  Um, no bitch, because my mama, though I never met the woman who’s spawn I am, was 10,000 times prettier than you will ever be, so stop being a stupid ho and smarten up a bit and suck some cock to make your $5 for your cheap pack of smokes and get the fuck out of my store.

Vista sucks about as well as a llama

Vista sucks. And not in that good mind-blowing blow sense of suck. Not even in that “holy shit, who would have thought a rim job could be good” kind of blow. It sucks in that “what the fuck was I thinking when I hit that” kind of sense.  But at least now I know why they were charging $75 more to get XP than to go with Vista.

To be blunt, when comparing the two, XP is that amazing prostitute that gives the great head and has the nice, firm tits everyone wants to play with, while Vista is the overused whore on the corner who wasted all her money on pointless cosmetic surgeries in a vapid attempt to make her more attractive, all culminating in her being the chick that makes you think, “Oh, snap, that bitch done got hit by the ugly truck and the mother fucker backed up and ran over her again!”

I played with 98 quite a bit.  Instead of masturbating while I was in high school, or surfing the net for porn, I stayed up all night playing with settings and breaking Windows (which, honestly, is it really that hard to break Windows?) so I could figure out how to fix it.  Then I downgraded to 95 because I was bored and did the same thing.  All of that made XP not so difficult to work with when I had a problem.

Vista?  That’s a whole different ball game.

It’s like when you sit down at the table to play cards and you’re all “Hit me!” or “Double down” and then they tell you you’re playing poker and you’re all “What the fuck?  I don’t even play poker!” and then they laugh at you and take all you’re money.  That’s exactly what Vista is like.

But it’s ok, because I pretended I was a complete and utter moron and did exactly what someone who only knew how to check their email would do and now I have a working computer.  Yay for being intelligent enough to act stupid enough to fix Windows.

And I think I may have just insulted myself.

Uriah and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

So I had this totally awesome post already in my head at work and then I totally forgot it.  So I’ll just give you random highlights from my day:

  • One of the guys I work with (an older married guy) told us the story of him and the one legged chick.  It started with, “She had two at the time”, in the middle there was a leg on the dashboard and one on the seat.  She kept hitting her head on the window when another employee came out and screamed, “OH MY G-D, MY EYES AND MY INNOCENCE”, and ended with, “It wasn’t too long after that she got into an accident and they had to cut her leg off to get her out of the car.”  He always tells the most heartwarming stories.
  • Someone wiped their butt with the same piece of toilet paper several times and then threw it on the floor behind the toilet and I refused to pick it up because I’m afraid I’ll get Hepatitis A a slacker.
  • After not sleeping for more than an hour here and an hour there for several days I became deliriously belligerent at work and called everyone out on their shit.  No one liked it.
  • A customer, who we suspect spends all his time drunk, but since he’s always like that we can’t prove it, took a piss in my parking lot that was so powerful It (yes, I did it that way on purpose, thus was the power of The Piss) pressure washed that part of the parking lot.
  • Some 22 yo guy got a blow job from a high school freshman cheerleader that we politely ruined by having one of our best regulars who parked next to them stare into the window and tell them to get lost.  This was all under the extremely bright mercury lights at the extremely busy pumps.
  • I learned that I’m not fucked up enough to get paid time off despite hallucinating, sobbing on my way to work, screaming in terror at my alarm clock going off, and having an anxiety attack since, mmm, Saturday.

Thus was my wonderful day.  Oh, and the fucktard that won’t read my blog my friend that I was supposed to hang out with tomorrow since I don’t have to be up early on Thursday morning made me hang out with him and his girlfriend his roommate until 2am when I have to be up at 5am.  Not that I’ll sleep, but I’ve got shit to do, people.

How was your day?

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