My Conflicted Childhood Self

I used to be an old woman.
When I was young, I collected small figurines. Do I mean action figures and little toy soldiers, to satisfy my small, raging male psyche?
Oh, no.  Not at all.
These were pleasant animal figurines, picked up in touristy beach shops and yard sales. Y’know, the kinds of places old people go to find flower-printed dentures and racist porcelain statues titled “negro butler” to greet their visitors at the front door with an alarmingly white smile and a tray of liquified sandwiches.

Although my figurine collection was no porcelain cherub clown collection you find at your grandmother’s house (sounds terrifying, doesn’t it?), if it were in a Pottery Barn catalog, it would probably be described as the following:
– “Quaint as *&#@.”
– “Adds to sense of quiet-ass ambience and an atmosphere that’s so goddam pleasant, you probably wouldn’t notice it if a terrifying chubby cherub clown was eyeing you from your Rustic Cottage Closet .”

Yes, I spent my hard-earned allowance money on figurines like this:


But I wasn’t quite at shawl-knitting level. In fact, my childhood days were marked by a perpetual mental struggle between my inner Mr. Rogers and what I call my inner Barbarian – or, my inner typical little boy.
My Inner Barbarian would hit me very suddenly. These were the times I would stalk my parents around the house like a panther, hoping they didn’t notice the stealthy, half-naked, growling 10-year old boy on his hands and knees in the middle of the kitchen floor. These were the times I would run around naked with magic marker muscles scrawled all over my body – my mind full of bloody violence and gnashing jaws.
Then I would buy a very pleasant statue of dolphins jumping into a rainbow-lit harbor.  I just couldn’t decide.  I think my favorite TV show would have been a mix of the two:

And, while most children wanted to be cowboys or astronauts, I was convinced that I wanted to be an interior decorator. Knowing my boyhood self, I probably would have scattered pleasant otter figurines around the floor, covered the walls with a small arsenal of swords, hung up a few charming inspirational posters, and then designed a bed to look like a spiked Orcish battleship.
There was a battle going on in my head. In fact, it’s still going on. One moment, I’m entranced by an adorable photo of a kitten wearing a frog bonnet:

Seriously, the most adorable picture ever, right?

And the next, I watch a bloody fantasy movie.

I’ve decided: when I grow up (which will probably never happen), I want to be an adorably bloodthirsty kitten space barbarian.


My Secret Double Life

Dear World,
I have a terrible secret: I’ve been living a double life.
It’s been eating me up inside, and I have to get this out of my mouth. Sure, on the outside, I might seem an average, socially-conscious, middle-class Democrat, but I can never tell my friends the things I’ve done over the past two weeks.
I go there – that place of unholiest places – every day, and think to myself, “This will be the last time.” It never is. If only my family knew the things I did when I was there. They wouldn’t be able to fathom, digest it. They would never be able to look me in the mouth again. I feel filthy – dirty, greasy – every day. As much as I’d like to pretend that I share the same values as my friends and as much as I’d like to pretend that everything is normal when I come home every day, I feel like the things that come out of my mouth give me away.
The first time I went there, I knew it was wrong. I thought I wouldn’t like it; things had changed! I expected to leave with an aftertaste of sin. And, I did. But the sin tasted so good.
My friends talk about people like me, and I nod along. I agree with them. I know they’re right. But, no matter how hard I try, I know I’m not like them – I can’t be!
That Chik-Fil-A sandwich is just too damn good.
Reluctant Bigot


I’ve been watching a lot of sitcoms lately: Friends, How I Met Your Mother, The Loop, Jersey Shore, the hobos in the alley behind my house who maintain a charmingly violent relationship, etc.

And, coincidentally, I also just began my first 9-5 job.  Okay, it’s not so much a job as an internship, but the hours are the same.  And I’m sure I distract myself with social media just as much as the regular employees do.  (And as much as I resent it, I DO get that 2:30 feeling.  Damn you, 5 hour energy.  Damn you.)

And, soon after beginning this internship, realized that the only experience I have with a 9-5 job is vicarious experience through TV.
And let me tell you: TV does NOT prepare you for a real job.
Because here’s what I’ve learned from television:

I also just kind of assumed that one day on the job accounted for about one episode in a series.  And let me tell you: demanding that promotion because I’ve been here for “an entire season, already” was not a good idea.  I am now doing a lot of janitorial work, which involves cleaning up a lot of the aftermath from my revelation-inspiring drunken antics.   But, if there’s anything else I’ve learned from television, it’s that if I do my job badly enough and record myself while doing so, I may be able to have my own reality show.
And according to the Lifetime channel, everybody I work with probably has syphilis, is involved with a cult, and my office rival is my real father.
I think I’m going to trust the Lifetime channel; it makes life more exciting, and allows me to actually use hushed whispers.  Seriously, when’s the last time you can say you spoke in a hushed whisper?

Happiness is a 4-Letter Word

I’m happy right now.
I’m not really sure why – whether it’s the weather, the tacos I just devoured, the Ke$ha I loudly jammed out to last night on the way back from my 1 AM Cookout run, the fact I get to see my family, or the cocaine all over my face – but I’m happy.
The last three years have been an emotional rollercoaster for me, so happiness has honestly been a fleeting emotion.  It’s been consistent, but also fleeting.  This makes sense, because – well – I started college about three years ago, and I don’t think anybody knows what they’re getting themselves into when they ship themselves off to that magical and poisonous combination of Neverland, a first sleepover, and an overseas factory.
But your parents know.  And, as you’re driving away to college, they’re probably sharing an inside joke, laughing, and saying, “That kid’s head is about to get SO @*#&ed up.”
Overall, a few things stand out as major contributors to this recent emotional rollercoaster:

1. Finding out what fulfills you is nearly impossible.  I often compare myself to a kitten chasing after a toy on a string: I get intently interested in one activity or interest – jump after it, run after it – and then God drops the string, and I’m left with the toy mouse just lying there.  Suddenly, it’s pretty boring, and I notice a ball of yarn or a stray wire out of the corner of my vision that requires my immediate attention.

2. All of the sudden, watching Fresh Prince reruns until 2 AM, getting fast food with your friends, and having a love for poop jokes isn’t enough.  You start to compare yourself to your peers – who’re (haha, funny word) getting jobs, exploring foreign countries, playing gigs, and fitting like 20 marshmallows in their mouth at the same time – and you start to realize that you want to do impressive stuff, too.  And you start to realize that time is running out.

3. Getting older.  #@$*.  Seriously.  The other day, I enjoyed a hard candy, and I called somebody “Son.”  I don’t have a son.  Oh, and yesterday, I actually used the word “synergy.”

5. Not having a son.  This is completely unrelated.  Writing it in #3 just made me realize how thankful I am for being unburdened by a little diarrhea monster.

4.  A love life.  Need I say more?  I’d like to pretend that I keep about 20 girls in the closet for when I get bored, but that’s really untrue.  (It’s really just 2, and they’re more into each other than they’re into me.)  Suddenly being the older guy with the car isn’t too important anymore.  Oh, and Van Wilder college movies should NEVER be viewed as how-to videos; I say this out of experience.

5. Boxers or briefs.  This is the most confusing matter of them all.  I change my mind every other week or so.  And boxer-briefs have changed the game so much that I’ve had to completely rethink my position.  I may or may not be currently wearing all three, just because I couldn’t decide this morning.

The beginning of this school year was pretty emotionally rough for me.  I started this blog to escape that rough patch of the first couple of years of college, and find out who I’ve become after emerging from it.
Unfortunately, I didn’t emerge as the same guy I was in high school.  I can never be that same emotional superhero, armed with the superpower of naivety.

But, I’ve taken a better look around me, and what I’ve found is that everybody is messed up in some way.  More and more, I’ve found that nobody can lay claim to total happiness or contentment, and that everybody has some sort of emotional problem.

The problem is that as we get older, we become more aware of the lack of purpose in life.  In grade school, we existed to stay up later than we were allowed to and to become old enough to buy a lottery ticket.  That was happiness.  But we’re not content with that anymore.  We’re not content with much, because suddenly happiness becomes a high stakes game.

But, in a way, that’s the challenge and thrill of life.  Honestly, I’m willing to bet that any one of you could walk into a doctor’s or therapist’s office right now and come out with a prescription.  It’s not abnormal.  In fact, it’s human.  If somebody ever actually found this elusive “happiness,” – this toy mouse –  I’m willing to bet they’d paw at it for a few seconds, then be immediately distracted by a ball of yarn in the corner.
Enjoy the emotional rollercoaster, because at least it’s a rollercoaster.  You may be going around in circles, but what really matters is if you throw up your hands and let out a big, exaggerated scream – just for the pointless hell of it.  Just because you can.

And there are always poop jokes.

Marriage Amendment Leads to Chaos

This past Tuesday, a monumental amendment guaranteeing lawyers the right to marry each other was passed.

This amendment had been in the works for a while, those supporting it claiming that it would give lawyers far overdue and basic human rights.
Those opposed, on the other hand, backed their stance with a range of arguments, ranging from “Lawyers are sneaky people,” to “I don’t believe in what lawyers do.”

Of course, many of those who supported lawyer marriage may now be regretting their decision, due to the last 24 hour’s shocking events.

“We promised the American public that lawyer marriage wouldn’t harm the public in any way,” said North Carolina Governor Bev Perdue.  “We may have been wrong.”

Since Tuesday night, North Carolina has turned into a legal wasteland:  lawyers roam the land without care for human life or law, finding loopholes around every simple ethical and legal standard, and subpoenas litter the land like so many fallen bodies after a battle.
And, in a way, this is a battle.

“Since gaining the courage this amendment gave them, The Lawyers have deviously managed to find loopholes in laws against animal-human marriage, animal-animal marriage, man-mistress marriage, man-corpse marriage, rock-paper-scissor marriage, man-corporation marriage, and female-Twilight book marriage,” said Perdue.  “I’m pretty sure that, legally, I’m married to this microphone right now.”

Many are worried about the long-term implications of lawyer-lawyer families, and how their children will be effected.
Noted anti-lawyer activist, Rick Santorum, shared his views with this reporter:

“With two lawyer parents, how can a child not grow up to be a lawyer?  Of course, they’ll be taking this pro-lawyer propaganda into schools and convincing other kids that it’s okay to grow up and be lawyers too,” said Santorum.  “It’s immoral to be a lawyer.  My great-grandfather told me that before he died, and a lot of comedians have, too.  Even though I didn’t live it, I miss the good old days of the Wild West where we just hung suspected criminals.  Lawyers just add unneeded complication; things were simpler back then.”

“If lawyers – the most hated motherf*&#ers in the whole entire county – can marry each other,” said local squirrel-hunter Buck Joe Bob, “who or what the hell can’t?”
Upon seeing a newly-wed lawyer couple approaching, a breathless Joe Bob said, “My god…together, their powers are twice as strong.”

This publication urges those in North Carolina to post the following signs outside their communities:

I hope you guys enjoyed that.  As most of you know, an amendment was recently passed (Amendment 1) in N.C. prohibiting same sex marriage.  To quote my FB status:
You can be against a certain lifestyle – fine – that’s your right as a human being and an American. But, to go completely out of one’s way and make a law hindering a lifestyle that is absolutely harmless to any other is needless and sickening.

I urge anyone who cares about this issue to help the movement to repeal Amendment One.  I’ll leave you with these images to share:

Adam & Eve Aren’t Good Roommates

I’ve always felt like there was more to the Adam and Eve story.  I mean, I’ve lived with a few roommates myself – I know what it’s like.  In my mind, several passive-aggressive notes preceded the whole being kicked out of paradise thing.  So, here is the story of Adam and Even, retold through passive aggressive rommate letters.  Enjoy!

In other news, I’m going to be updating a lot more frequently, now that Summer is upon us.  In other other news, I think I’ve just come up with the only understandable reasoning for why platypuses exist.

I’ll leave you with this:

Cadbury Creme Eggs are Delicious Joy-orbs.

Is there such a thing as a stupid question?

That question right there is a perfect example of a stupid question.  Also included in this family are:

“How many of your limbs are real?”
“How many of your kittens are pets?”
“Is that really a pineapple?”                    
“How related to your mother are you?”
“Why does that platypus not have a jet pack?”
“Don’t you think you have too many Cadbury Crème Eggs?”

In my opinion, this last question is the absolute stupidest.  Can anyone really have too many Cadbury Crème Eggs?  See, there I go asking stupid questions again.  Cadbury Crème Eggs are like magical orbs of ambrosia passed down from the Olympic Gods to the 3 Wisemen, who, in their infinite wisdom, gave them to the Easter Bunny upon his birth in the manger.

Really?  We all got him the same gift?!

Really? We all got him the same gift?!

At least, that’s what I was taught when I was 8 by my Great Grandmother’s cult, just after I was baptized in chocolate.  No other religion has quite spoken to me since.
Honestly, I like Easter for the simple fact that it harks the coming of Cadbury Crème Eggs.  It also marks the beginning of mornings like this:

I mean, yeah, the Cadbury eggs are normal, but why am I wearing women’s panties?!

Seriously, have you ever tried to eat more than a couple of Cadbury eggs?  They’re great and all, but the pure unadulterated joy (along with the hundreds of calories) is just too much to handle.
When Spring rolls around, people buy these little joy-orbs in the dozens, psych themselves up for eating AT LEAST that many, and then, upon finishing one, promptly lost interest.  It’s like one’s immune system puts your entire body on lock-down after you drop one of these caloric A-bombs down your throat-hatch.
Here’s a graph describing the process:

And here’s a more descriptive visual demonstration of the process:

STEP 1: It may be Christmas, but CADBURY CREME EGGS ARE COMING in only a few short months!!

STEP 2: Holy @#*$, I saw a flower…Spring must be here!!!

STEP 3: Oh, hey sexy.  How about you slip out of that foil wrapping, and into something a bit more comfortable…LIKE MY MOUTH!

STEP 4: I’m actually eating it.  This is happening.  I will never stop eating Cadbury Creme Eggs, because I want to perpetually feel this moment forever.

STEP 5: What have I done?

But, honestly, Cadbury Creme Eggs are the way to my heart.  Take note, ladies.  That is, if you want a guy who wakes up every morning surrounded by half-eaten Cadbury Creme Eggs, and no memory of the night.  Honestly, I don’t even think it’s the alcohol that causes the memory-loss – it’s more likely one of the many strange chemicals that make those Eggs so goddam delicious.