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Monday, December 14th, 2009
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3:56 pm - If I can't hit the cup, how can I ever hope to hit the womb?
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My life is becoming a Southern Gothic version of a Hugh Grant movie.
Today, I was supposed to give a semen sample for my new urologist. I changed urologists because my last one was a dick. No pun intended. Well, sort of intended, just so I could say no pun intended because cliches are what's funny, son. Anyway, that last prick, made me abstain from sex for SEVEN GODDAMN DAYS. Then, on the seventh day, he canceled my fucking appointment as I was unzipping my pants and queuing up some Eva Angelina lesbian porn. They rescheduled for the next day. So, then the next day, the fuckers canceled again. I got the distinct impression they didn't grasp what they were dealing with. So, I switched urologists.
This one is also a dick. But, he only made me abstain for two days. So, I leave work for home and my masturbatorium (which needs to be a real word) and I get my specimen cup and I spend about an hour going at it and when the moment comes, I grab the cup and...,
I forgot to remove the lid.
I can't even masturbate into a cup properly. Adapting and improvising as I always do, I found some lesbian bondage/public humiliation porn and went at it again. But, when I finished the scientist I am realized this was a flawed sample to say the least. So, now, I've got to abstain again.
Still, there is something spiffy about taking off work to masturbate. There is also something surreal about the prospect of walking around with a container of sperm.
I also had to have an ultrasound done on my testicles. This was perhaps the single most awkward moment of my life. On the bright side, I know what the inside of my sack looks like in real time.
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Comments: 2 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Wednesday, December 9th, 2009
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2:44 pm - I like ice, Leave it the fuck alone.
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The Vagina and I recently attended a burlesque show. It was spiffy. Sort of laid back, but entertaining. I feel in love with the firebreather/sword swallower. Kim said she knew I would.
Like I said, it was laid back and friendly in a shit-dive venue I feel comfortable in. It was, however, overrun by frat boys who kept yelling, "I just want to see your tits!" during the routines.
The Vagina and I moved upstairs to avoid these fuckholes, but they were everywhere. Standing on the second floor directly over the stage looking over the railing, we had a a great view of the firebreather. The douche next to me stunk of Jager. Fuck, I hate Jagermeister. When she did her trick, he turned to me and said, "Hey man, smell the butane?" To which I said, "Yes, of course I do." He looked hurt. I turned to Kim and said that I was apparently standing next to Wolverine and his heightened senses. The guy walked away.
But, he came back. He said, "You're not standing her by accident are you?" To which I responded that I never do anything by accident. He paused and asked, "Are you dating one of the dancers?", To which I said no. He then asked if I was their bodyguard. To which I said no.
I swear to fucking Christ, I thought this dipshit was going to cry when he said, "Then why are you being so mean?"
"I'm not."
And he sulked away.
This exchange touches on several important facts about me-
- I always look like I work wherever I'm at.
- I always act like a bouncer.
- I am douche repellent.
- I make no effort whatsoever to break the ice.
- Even when I'm not trying, I make people cry.
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Comments: 2 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Wednesday, November 25th, 2009
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6:49 am - Also..,
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I lost 45 lbs.
At some point, I became The Fat Man Who Ate Keith. Ice Cream, easy access to pussy and lack of exercise led to me swelling up to Ron Jeremy like proportions. It was pretty fucking gross. I imaging that sex with me was like being mauled by a walrus.
So, after having to buy a double-xtra-fucking-large shirt one day. I went on the Medi Weight Loss Clinic and started working out. I went from size 44 pants to 36 and brought my fat % from 42 to 27.
I work out obsessively again. It's really the only time I'm ever alone. It's my zen moment. Then, some assfuck has to come over and talk to me about goddamn football even though I have my headphones on.
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Comments: 6 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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6:45 am - Fucking Jiminy Cricket
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I know only this...,
A friend asked me if marriage was as bad as everyone said it was. I said, for me, at least it wasn't, but that even if it was, I wouldn't admit to it because that would make me just like everybody else and what the fuck would the point of that be?
I told him two things which make marriage different than dating.
1) Drunk sex. Doesn't happen. Or, rarely happens. When you're dating and just get together, you get drunk, bawl, throw-up then hump some more. When you've been together for six years or more, you get drunk, buy some junk food, go home and one of you passes out while the other one watches Law and Order reruns. There's just no pressure to have sex, because, well, all those genitals aren't going anywhere. Ever.
2) Being married is a lot like fucking Jiminy Cricket. You know that voice in your head that tells you what you shouldn't have told that last tranny hooker story or how maybe your nostril hair might be sticking out during an art show? Well, marriage is a lot like having that voice walking around with you, everywhere, all the time. The up-side is you can make that voice go down on you. The down-side is that no matter how much vodka and denial you throw at it, you can not drown it out and even if you do, everyone else at the table can hear it anyway. It makes you a better person but it also makes you dull.
Jiminy Cricket strutting around in a thong and my old Sex Pistols shirt has also managed to throw into sharp relief the person I thought I was and the person I am. This, I feel, has mostly been for the better.
Of course, being married to me ain't no double fudge sundae all the time neither, kid. I'm abrasive, sarcastic, confrontational and I have to be, at all costs, without question, in charge of the shopping cart at the grocery store. You can't just wander around in there with no plan.
Soon, I'll post about my Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. Basically, it means I'm an asshole. I've always known that. But, being married has taught me that I might, from time to time, be a pathological asshole. Still, I prefer to think I'm afflicted with Awesome Personality Disorder.
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Comments: 2 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Wednesday, September 30th, 2009
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11:25 am - So it goes
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Derby for Kimmy and I is coming to an end. It's been an overwhelming positive experience, but also a very time consuming experience. We've built the team up from nothing with some old friends and some new friends. We've had some of the most fun I've ever had and it is by far one of the things I'm proudest of having done. The downside has been dealing with fucktards and people I wouldn't walk across the street to piss on if they were on fire. But, the plus side is that I got to do something and build something with my wife, my sister and several of my closest friends. I got to see a side of my wife I'd never have gotten to see otherwise. I'm going to miss seeing her play, she was unbelievable. I'm going to miss yelling at girls in short skirts and fishnets too. They don't allow you to do that at strip clubs. I've tried.
We're leaving because, as I said, it's simply too time consuming. We've been doing it for three years and in that time, we've not focused enough on other things such as writing and music. I'm starting one of those old-guys-playing-sloppy-drunk-rock'n'roll type bands. I've also been writing some alt-country songs for Kim to sing. We're totally stuck up each others' asses like that.
I've also begun to map out a new novel. But, my writing is rusty and looking back at older things I've written, I think my style of writing or at least thinking has changed significantly. Right now, I feel my writing has no voice.
Whoever I was when I was 25 is some character floating around in stories people tell and this journal. I'm older now, calmer. I would say less misanthropic and argumentative. But, it may just be that I learned to be content so I don't need to fight everything any longer. Perhaps it is that and a bit of laziness as well.
Aldous Huxley said he wanted to change the world but in the end learned he could only change himself. Perhaps the same is true about destroying the world and learning in the end you can only destroy yourself.
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Comments: 2 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Wednesday, August 26th, 2009
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2:48 pm
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Some time ago, when I was still inquisitive and in search of meaning, instead of old and bored, I read about computers having near death experiences. I don't remember the specifics because who really cares about specifics anymore. The world is all broad strokes and generalizations these days. Who am I to buck the system? But, basically, programmers would create a sufficiently complex computer program to mimic our own cognitive-neural system and let it run and grow and adapt and take in and give out data and then, they killed it so they could understand what our brains might go through when we expire. During the final moments before its death, it spit out mountains of data. Think of the computer, Euclid, in "Pi." That's the basic impression I got from the article(s) I read. Some computer program trying in its last nanoseconds to give back to the world everything it had learned about everything it during that brief little moment in eternity when its constituent particles, atoms, bits and pieces ceased to be random and meaningless and became an observer and student of the cosmos before blinking out and spending the rest of eternity as nothing more than the ever decreasing sum of its parts.
That for me was writing was always about.
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Comments: Just don't bore me.
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| Saturday, August 15th, 2009
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8:47 am
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I know it is cliche to go on about how the internet has fucked us up. But, it is true that stupid is spreading at the speed of light. Still, though, I hate to be cliche. I'd say the internet hasn't fucked us up. We fucked up the internet. But, it was inevitable. This was all inevitable. It's been a fixed and immutable course since we first learned to carve stone axes.
I don't even recognize people as real anymore. They're all just bumper stickers. Little nodes in a disinformation highway sitting on their fatasses forwarding emails and caring little about the veracity of the statements within just so long as they buttress their shaky worldview. No one wants to learn. No one wants to be a better person. Everyone just wants to believe and know they are just fine the way god/mom/dad/America/evolution made them. They all feed off each other's inanity and willful ignorance. They thrive on horseshit like crops of fucktard flowers. There's no substance any longer. There's no character. There's just an endless line of bullshit about belief and faith and fucking Lady Gaga and Rascal Flatts. And the goddamn Eagles won't go away.
Today's American cultural landscape is an ugly bastard offspring from unholy orgy of pop psychology, subjectivism, fundamentalism, short attention spans and low brow entertainment. But, I don't blame the media. They're doing their job, turning a profit giving the people what they want. I blame natural selection. We evolved a brain, capable of reason and logic and the ability to suss out causal relationships. But also, it gave us the ability to create a world where no longer needed to do that. Natural selection gave us a brain capable of creating art and music and philosophy. But it also gave us the ability to create a world where we no longer had to do that. It gave us the ability to create a world wherein everything was just instant gratification of our need to be reassured that no matter how unfounded, how incorrect, how wrong our ideas were- we were right.
So now we have a 24 hour news cycle with no news. What the fuck happened in Afganistan yesterday? You don't know unless some scrawny twit in tight jeans went to rehab there.
We are in an age where there is a constant deluge of information and we're drowning in it. Information, but no truth. That's what we wanted. We want byte-sized crap that reinforces what we already want to believe. We don't want art, we want entertainment. We don't want education, we want to be told we are right. So it goes, round and round, endlessly, bipedal apes flinging the same turds at each other for eternity.
And now, everyone's a goddamned expert. Everyone's goddamn opinion is on equal ground. To be an expert on something, all you have to do is believe something until it is inconceivable that it could ever be false. There's no place like willful ignorance. Consequently, the worst thing you can possibly be is an actual, trained, educated expert on something. You're a biologist who has studied primate evolution for the past 30 years. Well, fuck you, I'm a soccer mom with a high school degree and a real estate license and I say we my precious snowflakes didn't descend from no monkeys. You're a constitional lawyer with a harvard degree who's authored seven award winning books on free speech? Fuck you, I have an internet connection and I say getting fired from Walmart for calling someone a nigger is a violation of my free speech.
We're all equals now. It's all so egalitarian. We wanted it that way. I suppose we just never figured that to be equal, we'd all have to be dragged down. If we are honest and objective and capable of the least bit of detachment from our predicament, we're faced with only one clear conclusion- this American experiment has resulted in the paradoxical finding that there is nothing more inherently corrosive and detrimental to a democracy than giving people what they want.
If an alien zoologist were to study us and then present his findings to a scientific journal it would be titled, "The Humans: The Role of Cognitive Feedback Loops In the First Recorded De-Evolution Of A Species in The Known Universe."
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Comments: 2 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Wednesday, August 5th, 2009
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7:42 pm
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My mother bit me.
That seems like a joke or an attempt at Oedipal humor. It isn't. She bit me. She bit me because I took her morphine away. It left the telltale bruise, purple, red and black complete with teeth marks right where my left arm meets my torso. It hurt like a motherfucker. It was awkward. It was probably one of the worst experiences of my life. This was right before knocking me down and then me having to subsequently tackle her to keep her from running off into the night to be picked up by whatever whacked out middle aged white chicks she runs with. Bunch of pill popping drunks cruising for cock and booze at shitty dance clubs. I was trying to keep her from leaving so she would have to deal with reality. If I learned one thing from watching my mother, it is that if you run from pain and reality instead of just dealing with it, your soul rots and your character fades.
My mother bit me. Who the fuck bites people? Psychotic white trash fucking junkies that's who. I'm too goddamn arrogant and snobby to have that shit in my blood.
My fucking mother fucking goddamn bit me.
I mean, think about it. My mother bit me. This was after a couple of hours of verbal assaults and arguing. It was after she bolted out the back door and tried to jump the privacy fence and failed. This was one of the most fucktarded things I'd ever seen in my life.
It started off with the family simply telling her she had a problem. She placated us. Then, I went for the cabinet. I always knew one day I would have to clean out the cabinet. The proverbial shit hit the fan. When I found the morphine, she went apeshit. She actually said, "Keith, people don't abuse morphine." This is perhaps the dumbest thing I have ever heard.
"What the hell did you just say to me? This ain't my first rodeo, mom. I worked at a methadone clinic. I studied pharmacology in school. I taught goddamned drugs and behavior in grad school. Don't try to bullshit me like I'm some country bumpkin."
She told me I was a grand crusader and that I was only doing this because I was an arrogant know it all. I said that might be so, but she's a junky.
She tried to hide a bottle of wine. She's an idiot, so it wasn't hard to figure out where it was. I poured it out. Told her this was like dealing with Evil Grandpa all over again. She took offense to that. She said I was pissing her off. I told her I've never pissed off anyone on accident.
Darvocet. Morphine. Soma and a host of other muscle relaxers. A bevy of benzodiazepines. An adderal-like psychostimulant. Scores of unidentified pills. This is just what she had in her house. This isn't whatever it is the cops buster her with during her DUI arrest a few days prior. She was charged with possession of a controlled substance. She had a vial of miscellaneous pills. She probably doesn't even know what they were. She's a walking goddamn labrat.
My mother bit me. What kind of a grown person bites other people? How do you look back on that and not think you're shithouse insane?
I'd seen it before. Taking the drugs and booze away from an attic threatens their very survival. They get desperate. I've seen it all before. I know how bad morphine addiction is. I know how bad the withdrawals are. She isn't going to make it. She isn't going to get better. I can't make her. Everyone else will believe what they want to believe. They'll take the path of least resistance. They want to think she'll have an ephiphany and just stop. I've seen it too much. I know her too well. She's fucked. I'll do what I have to do and what I'm good at- I'll be an asshole. Relentless. Blunt. Leave her no place to hide.
I've done her a disservice, I told her, but not being honest. By not confronting her when I suspected. By trying to avoid conflict. By going against my nature. I won't do that anymore.
No one else in my family can do it, but I can be the bad guy. It won't be hard. She disgusts me right now. I realized that night how true what I told my clients at the clinic was. Addiction negates your identity and your self. I can't think of a worse fate than to lose your self.
My mother bit me. That little lady who dropped me off at kindergarten and taught me to keep time so I could dance and play music. The little lady who would tell me how smart and wonderful I was when the kids at school would beat the shit out of me for having warts and just generally being a weirdo. That lady. She bit me.
My mother bit me. And all I can think is, that lady is a fucking junky cunt.
Motherfuck.
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Comments: 3 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Thursday, May 14th, 2009
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9:21 pm - Flies
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A friend of mine was murdered recently. Well, I say recently, it was some time ago actually. He was a big, stupid man who went by the name Brian Turd. The news reports even called him Brian Turd. He would have gotten the biggest fucking kick out of that. He was walking his dog early in the evening and someone put two in his chest. No one knows what someone. Nobody knows why. Sycophants and name droppers are crawling out of the woodwork to mourn him. His picture is plastered in dive bars and music halls all across New Orleans, Biloxi and Mobile. People who may have gotten drunk or high with him or seen his band play are now wearing their grief for him on their sleeve like some sort of shitty tribal tattoo. A couple dozen cretins searching for identity and desperate to prove something, anything, to someone, anyone, preferably in the loudest, most violent and uncouthe manor possible, threaten violence at even the slightest utterance that might sully his reputation.
His reputation. What the fuck do they know? They must not have known him. I did. I wasn't the closest with him. But, we came up playing music in punk bands together. I knew him for 16 years. I was in a band with him. I witnessed him get a handjob back stage. That's just downright intimate. He lived at the house we all basically lived at.
He didn't deserve to get shot, but he was by any standard an acquired taste, to put it nicely. Everyone wants to act like he was a complete innocent. He wasn't. He was an abuser of multiple intoxicants. He was violent and quick tempered. He had horrible hygiene. Christ, that man smelled. But, there was something undeniably beautiful about him. You knew, no matter what, that there was only one goddamned man on the planet like this. You knew, you hoped, there was only one goddamned man like this on the planet, ever, since the dawn of goddamned men. And you felt a little lucky, even if begrudgingly, to have witnessed his existence.
This is the man who went up to a guy in a wheelchair and told him, "Hey man, nobody pushes me around."
When he died, I hadn't talked to him in months. The last words I said to him were, "Get the fuck out of my face." I meant it. We didn't always get along. Which is why others were closer to him. But, he was a part of my life. He tried to make out with my wife at a show. It was hard to even be mad at him it was so fucking lame. The man had green teeth.
I was at the benefit of another friend who died in a car accident the night he was shot. I don't think I'm ready for all my friends to start dying. I say that, but I suppose it's a little too late. All those guys who said in high school, "I won't make it 30, I'm too hard core." Some of them didn't. It's not so hardcore when you're thirty. It's just retarded. Some kid with no dad because you couldn't stop shooting up. Good job, dipshit. The world goes on and never even gives the slightest little bit of a fuck that you were so fucking real.
So, yeah, they're all dropping like flies. But, this one, it stuck with me. I couldn't figure out why. Like I said, we weren't teribly close. Part of the same circle of friends that grew up playing loud music in shitholes and basically making asses of ourselves in clubs acrosst the Gulf Coast. But, not close. Still, it stuck with me and I couldn't stop thinking about him. Maybe it was because he was the first person I know that was murdered. It could be that simple.
Recently,I was in New Orleans, at a bar he used to work the door at. It was loaded full of hipsters dancing to some crap I didn't recognize. He would have mocked them mercilessly. He would have groped their women. He would have groped their men. He would have pissed on the dance floor. And perhaps that's it. He's gone, violently so, and my life, for good or bad, will be noticeably less funny and interesting. This is how we grow old. This is how we get boring.
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Comments: 6 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Wednesday, April 22nd, 2009
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7:17 am
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| Monday, April 6th, 2009
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3:07 pm
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So, I'm not dying. Figures. Nothing awesome ever happens to me.
The doctor poked and prodded and queried and nodded. Basically, my heart is pretty much the best heart that ever happened. Well, it's okay. I didn't have a seizure. I didn't have a heart attack. My blood pressure is no longer high, which I'm fucking thrilled about. I've been killing myself running and not eating awesome stuff as much as I'd like so I wouldn't have a fucking stroke before I'm forty.
The cutest little black girl did my EKG, X-rays and blood work. There was something oddly arousing about her putting sticky things on me, leaning over my barrel chest, giggling and apologizing for ripping my chest hair out, and drawing blood. I hated to leave her. I thought of all the mothering nurses and dental assistants I developed crushes on as they tried to soothe me while poking me with needles, drawing blood, stitching up gashes or cleaning my braces. (I was afraid of needles as a kid and even into my mid-twenties.)I got a hard-on from it. I get hardons from every damn thing women do. I finally understand the nurse fetish though. Not the "chicks look hot in uniforms thing", but the obsession so men have with nurses and such. Something about vulnerability and proximity and nurturing and breasts brushing against you as they heal you. I don't have one, but I understand it.
I also realized how feminine I perceive death to be. I don't mean weak or dainty. Just, the cliche womb like, sensual darkness of it all. The cyclical nature of it, I suppose. Suppose that fits given my twin obsessions with death and sex.
I bet I die with a hardon.
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Comments: 5 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Friday, April 3rd, 2009
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5:03 pm - Going Boom
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So, I went down the other night. And I went down hard. I was taking a leak, getting ready to go to sleep, busting my wife's balls about something because I can only communicate in grunts and sarcasm and I began to feel strange. I knew conciousness was giving me a big fuck you, but it wasn't like other times I've passed out. It was different somehow and that was frightening. I tried to tell Kimmy to call an amubulance, but I was stifled by what I can only explain as the sensation of someone tightening a rubber band around my lungs. I thought to myself, "Fuck, I'm gonna die. Again."
And it all went black.
While I was out, I saw large, underwater tentacles, thick like god cocks, the stuff of sci-fi movies, japanese porn and old nautical tales, reaching up from the floor of some ocean and dragging me down.
I came to pulling myself a door frame. Kimmy yelling "What happened? What happened?" I looked down and saw blood and wounds on my hand and more blood and deeper wounds on my knee. Of the 1500 sq feet I live in, I managed to collapsed, 230 lbs of dead weight, on my knee and then my right side on the metal grate of the return vent in the floor of my hallway. I suppose I was trying to make a run for it since last I recall I was in the shitter.
I pulled myself up and laid down in bed. The dog, Lolabelle Wigglebeast, jumped on me and began licking. She was banished from the room. Kimmy was hysterical. I told her I needed her to calm down and I think that hurt her feelings.
Long story short, I recovered. I stayed up late that night watching shitty moves because I've always been terrified of dying in my sleep. My knee is a mess. I have an appointment with a doc on Monday. I'm a little bit freaked out.
I'm impressed with myself that even unconcious, I ran for help and pulled myself off the floor. Even with not forebrain acticity, I'm a stubborn, relentless prick. That shit's all up in my brain stem, kid.
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Comments: 2 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Wednesday, April 1st, 2009
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10:03 am
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I've known my whole life I would have to jack-off into a cup one day. I've been looking forward to it with immense anticipation. Today was that day.
The vagina and I have been trying to get knocked up for about a year now. We're not all scientific about it, we just don't use pills or do facials and anal. No money shots for a year and not even a zygote.
I told her when we started I was a little bit nervous. I've laid a lot of pipe and never once have a definitively gotten a woman with child. Of course, I've used condoms the majority of the time, particularly when trolling for strange. There were a couple of girls I did the fornication with in high school who got pregnant and had abortions, but one was the neighborhood pump who was regularly banging three or four guys that month (and I've always suspected her father as well) and the other regularly got gangbanged. So it is doubtful to say the least I was part of those unholy conceptions. At least, I didn't really feel any compulsion to mourn the loss of those particular biohazard bag stuffers.
So, I'm concerned. She went to the hoohaologist yesterday. She brought home a cup for me to masturbate into this morning. She told the doctor that I would be excited because I'm really into cups. I woke up this morning. Fed the dog and cats. Pissed. Brushed teeth. Let the dog out. Bathed. Let the dog back in. Got dressed. Sat down in front of the computer, jacked off to an old clip of Seka getting DPed and a clip of Jasmine Tame sucking off four guys. Came in a cup. Put the lid on and left it on the desk. Told the vagina where it was and kissed her goodbye.
It tickles me fucking pink that she had to drive to the hospital today with a cup of cum next to her. She has to walk into the place with it.
With that behind me, I can move on to bigger and better things. Next time, I'm jacking-off into a crockpot.
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Comments: 3 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Friday, March 20th, 2009
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12:11 pm - Resistance is Futile and Unsexy
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I tend to be evangelical about the things I care about with the people I care about. When I meet someone I take a liking to or feel a connection with (admittedly rare, but it does happen), I do two things: 1)because I have no interest in hanging out with sensitive and/or easily offended people test their character with a combination of sacrilege, misanthropy, hooker stories and jokes about baby rape and 2)if they make it that far, I set about trying to increase their quality of life by forcing everything I dig right down their cocksuckers. I do it cause I care. And, because assimilation and groupthink are fucking hot.
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Comments: Just don't bore me.
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| Friday, March 6th, 2009
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10:01 am
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I've been thinking about my parents a lot lately. This is perhaps unavoidable, not just because I am somewhat human, but also because I work with my father who goes days without even speaking to me and my mother has a way of making her presence felt even if she is no where in the vicinity. People in Botswana are probably wondering what the fuck her problem is right now.
I don't generally buy into the nurture side of things. It's never had an appeal to me aesthetically and I have always found its explanatory power lacking. When films or novels harp about how some dumb cocknocker is all OCD because his daddy rubbed his face in pigshit or some poor bastard is driven to success at the expense of his relationships its because his mom was a poor whore with a heart of gold I think of seratonin and evolved neural and cognitive mechanisms. When people tell me they get high all the time because their daddy fingered their asshole in front of their grandmother, I think they get high all the time because opiates bind to receptors and repeated use causes changes in neurochemistry and physiology and some people have a median forebrain bundle that is extremely sensitive to influxes of exogenous chemicals.
Obviously, it's not so black and white. No one really thinks it is. It's a complex interplay of forces, internal and external, It's simply the nature side of the debate has always seemed the more interesting story. At least, I never found it relevant in my life. It's as if I think I popped to in a vacuum, fully formed and kicking, ready to tear the world a new asshole right from the get-go.
I suppose it's a control thing. I'd rather not think any external force molded me in any way. I'd rather think I made me the way I am by a string of conscious decisions. I want my strengths and merits, my eccentricities and idiosyncrasies, my weakness and sin, to be mine alone, not the net affect of someone else. I take pride in having an internal locus of control. I'm all about being a product of my own volition. In a sense, this is true. But, in a sense, like all things that are true, this is utter bullshit. I was once in my mother's uterus. I was once in her egg. I was once in my dad's balls. I have their genes. Then, I was in their home and in their arms. They fed me. Taught me. Loved me and like all parents, they probably scarred me in ways I'll never fully comprehend. I have their mark on me.
For one, my mother repeatedly told me as a to remember when interacting with someone to do so as if it were the last time I would ever see them, because either one of you could die before you saw each other again.
For two, I believe my disinterest in mechanics and sports and my interest in science, literature and music came in part as a result of me trying to find something my father wasn't interested and knew nothing about so he couldn't shit all over it whenever I tried.
But, I've spent a lot of energy in my life separating myself from them when perhaps I shouldn't have. They aren't bad people. Fundamentally flawed, for sure. I realized that at a young age. That's a hard moment, when you realize your parents aren't gods.
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Comments: Just don't bore me.
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| Wednesday, February 18th, 2009
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12:13 pm - Did Jesus Ever Get Bored?
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I was once accused of planning out my conversations days in advance so I could utilize a litany of stellar quips and juicy bon mots and thus make myself appear even more awesome than necessary. I must admit there is some truth to that. I do plan out conversations with people in the sense I know what to say to get them to say what I need them to say so I can say what I want to say. I have planned entire conversations just so I can use a joke or a great line. I'm not manipulative, I just can't stand getting bored, so I am not going to let this legion of sad sacks I'm forced to truck with do that to me.
I'm not as good at this as I once was. Nowadays, with growing frequency, I lose control and the episodes veer off course and I'm in the tired, murky waters of lameness and bad metaphors. I'll write out a scene in my head, knowing where it is at that moment and where I want it to end. Often, I'll have a particular line I want it to end with, either in meatspace or in my sprawling autobiography, "Get The Fuck Out Of My Face With That Bullshit, The Keith McElderry Story" only to watch it fizzle and slip away. Sometimes, I just want it to go somewhere, anywhere, interesting at all, good or bad. Just not boring. Please, sweet fucking Christ, not dull. I become frustrated and disappointed. Then I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to talk about. Nothing pops or hurts. Everything just bores. I'm just some other heap of atoms mundanely dumbassing my away through 70 or so years out of 13 billion in such a way that no one, really, will give a shit about.
How's that for self-absorbed and pissy?
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Comments: 2 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Thursday, February 12th, 2009
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2:29 pm - A Halo Ain't No Kinda Cowboy Hat
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Back when I tried to find Jesus but failed because I love jacking off so much, I read a shit-ton about near death experiences. There are of course, all different types reported. The classic bright light and life review, the floaters, the Jesus chats, the fluttering about the cosmos feeling run through by the vitality of the god-thing. And, much of what one experienced in a NDE was determined or influenced at least in large part by their culture. Thus, Muslims tend to have NDE's chock full of Islamic messages, Buddhists have Buddhist NDE's and Christians have Christian NDE's. On of the most interesting things I picked up on, is here, in the West, when we die and the minions of the afterlife inform us we are to go back, it is because we fucked up and died too soon, so best we get our nearly dead ass back to the mortal coil we prematurely shuffled off of before things get too out of hand. God has his shit in one bucket and we better pull our heads out of our asses and play ball. He also, apparently, is a dick about punctuality. I, on the other hand, am always two minutes late for everything.
In the Eastern NDE's, many times, when someone was informed it was not their time, the minions of the afterlife took full responsibility and would often come across as downright embarrassed, like some intern or temp totally fucked up some paperwork and "Geez, we're sorry, we sure miffed this up. Please accept our apologies and this coupon for one karma-free reincarnation". It's as if their afterlife is run by a legion of bumbling polite but incompetent halfwits. It's a much more comedic death. It fits me better. I'd rather believe the gods were a bit more human and flawed and flustered at the whole enormity of it all. I'd feel more comfortable knowing they hadn't quite gotten the hang of running the cosmos yet, rendering all of time and existence nothing but one big learning experience for everyone, corporeal and incorporeal alike. Perhaps omnipotence is relative.
Of course, I don't believe in an afterlife and think all this NDE business is best explained by a brain shutting down, so, its really all a moot point. Besides, one of the things I learned about NDE's is the more you know about them, the less likely you are to have one. So, as always, I'll be getting the shit end of the stick on that one.
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Comments: Just don't bore me.
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| Tuesday, February 10th, 2009
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5:14 pm
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My sister is getting a divorce. She just texted me to tell me it will be final Thursday and that realization hit her like a brick wall. Still, she's doing surprisingly well. She's finally getting pissed instead of feeling guilty. Her husband was an emotionally abusive dickwad. I'm not a violent man, but I've wanted to stomp a mudhole in his ass and walk it dry for nearly 10 years now. But, it's really a positive thing for her and in a selfish way for me. We spend more time together now. The vagina and I didn't like being around her husband because he's an insecure, sensitive man who is a bit irrational and emotionally volatile. There's a bunch of things I don't do well around- sensitivity, irrationality, emotions and insecurity. Those sort of people irk living shit out of me. I also avoid people who try to impress me. A friend once told me he wasn't surprised that I didn't think much of NYC when I was there for a bit. I asked him why and he said, "Because nothing ever impresses you." And, I realize this is why I seem like an ass. I've tried to feign excitement in response to what people tell me, but Jesus-titty-fucking-Christ, it's not like I'm running into a bunch of Nobel Laureates or gun runners.
So, she goes out with us more, though I personally feel she drinks too much given our family's generations-spanning love affair with hedonistic addiction, but hey, it's her divorce. See how sober I am during my first few divorces.
And, she can come back to roller derby, which with the exception of our love for movies, the fact that we both begrudgingly work at the family business now and the bond that all siblings have (that you are the only ones who know just how deeply your family fucked you up), is really the only thing we ever had in common. She was kicking ass at it a couple of years ago and the change in her was readily apparent. She was confident and truly happy with herself for the first time since high school. He, being a insecure person of defective character and questionable intellectual capacity, made her quit.
At the same time, I've always worked very hard to keep the circles of my life from intersecting. I keep work, friends and family separate. Now, my sister is all over it. She's cool, but I actually do find myself censoring my behavior around her some when we are out. Which is odd. I never self censor.
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Comments: 3 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Tuesday, December 30th, 2008
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12:22 pm
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The vagina got me a mandolin for Christmas. I've taught myself a little already. It's been a long time since I learned an instrument. Thusly, my house is alternately filled with the cacophonious fumblings of me attempting to write songs on a mandolin or the drunken bellowing of "Wayfaring Stranger" at odd hours, as this is the only song I know how to play on mandolin. She also got me a pair of new Chuck Taylors, which says a lot since she fucking hates Chuck Taylors. You know you love someone when you get them shit you hate. I would buy her something I hate, but I think, with the exception of the shoes and Judas Priest, we hate all the same things. People always say a relationship is founded on mutual interests and shared passions. Flapdoodle. It is much more imperative that you hate the same things. For instance, we can both love Hank Sr. and MST3K all we want, but the day she brings home an Eagles CD, I'm punching her in the cunt and splitting. I've got one of those bandanas on a stick the hobos use ready to go. It's filled with canned beans, harmonicas and hope.
I once lived with two married couples. I was single at the time and they were alcoholics and newlyweds, so, I spent many nights sobbing into my pillow while the four of them humped away. At times, I would crank up the volume on my TV while playing porno, just so I could fit in. But, I digress and shit. My point is, one of the males would constantly leave a shit stain on the toilet. He was always gone when I would notice this so I brought his wife in once to witness the smudge. She apologized. Grabbed a piece of toilet tissue and wiped the shit up. I was astounded. Somewhere. Someday. Someone will love me like that.
Next time we are at a social gather, I might just crap on the kitchen floor and leave. If my wife cleans it up, I'll know we indeed have a beautiful, rare thing. If she shirks her responsibility, it's cunt punching time.
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Comments: 4 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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| Wednesday, December 10th, 2008
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10:08 am
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I've got much to post about, but no time to do it in. So, in the interim, allow me to steal this from Leah for shits and giggles.
Post a picture in my comments of what you think describes me when you think about what/who I am.
Give no written explanation. Just an image.
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Comments: 3 vacuous dimwits - Just don't bore me.
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slackjawed's journal