I Live Across the Street From Santa Claus

First of all, isn't that picture a little creepy? Honestly.


The fire is roaring so you know he didn't come down the chimney. Santa participated in Breaking and Entering. That's not so bad, though; I would imagine that Santa might commit the occasional B&E. After all, the kids need to get their gifts.

But what is he doing with that tree? He is either stealing it or using it to clock the sleeping child renderring her unconscious. For what, i don't even want to imagine. . . that jolly pig bastard. Look at that sinister grin. It's apparent this Santa cares not of children's well being, the fire is obviously out of control and her pajamas probably aren't flame retardant. And yet, Santa does nothing, in fact, he's gonna hit her with her own Christmas tree! Did you notice the little baby Santa kidnapped? I know what you're thinking: it's just a doll. But it isn't. Look at the "doll's" arm; she's trying to escape! Dolls don't try to escape.





Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I gave my neighbor a spot while he backed his RV into his backyard; making sure he didn't run over his turtle. I couldn't help but notice how much this guy resembled Santa Claus. The ironic thing is. . . his name is Nick.

Nick is not a slender fellow, though not morbidly obese either. He has a clean and full beard matching his hair, which is white. seriously, not gray at all. Nick is also very pink, very blush and he wears spectacles.

Let's be honest, the physical resemblence is what you were expecting. Still, there are things about Nick you wouldn't expect. That is, of course, unless you suspect him of being Santa Claus.

Which I do.




First he lives with and employs about 5 mexicans. Wich are obviously his elves. Practically speaking, are little people truly the most qualified for such a position as Santa's elves? Mexicans, I'm sure, are much more efficient and can probably work circles around our smaller friends. So that settles it. Nick has modern day elves.

Next, Nick has a pole on his lawn. And no, it's not a flag pole, even though there is a flag on it. Come on, people! That's exactly what he'd want you to think. The flag is just a cover for what it really is: His pole between poles; his pole away from pole; a vacation pole, if you will.

Nick also doesn't decorate much during the holidays. This makes perfect sense. You never see Jesus hanging pastel streamers and dying eggs for His holiday, Easter. The same reason you never see a bunch of Irishmen painting the town green and handing out shamrocks on St. Patties Day. And the same reason, you never decorate for your own birthday party. You just don't. What kind of message would it send if one were to elaborately decorate for one's own holiday? T'would seem awfully narcissistic, if you ask me. This shows that Nick is humble and knows how to integrate into normal society.

Finally, Nick is a compassionate man. . . or SAINT. I've never heard him raise his voice or even seen him angry. I threw a raging party a summer or two ago and some hooligan that was there (whom, by the way, totally got put on the "Naughty" list) threw a beer bottle through the back window of his van. Nick approached me the next day and asked very politely, "I know it's not your fault, but next time, could you try and keep better tabs on those that are attending?" That was it. No scolding, no ploy for reimbursement, just a kind suggestion was all.

It seems quite apparent, now, that Nick is no normal neighbor; not in the slightest. Please, don't hound me for favors or bribes in hope of getting in Santa's good graces. I'm going to let him enjoy his vacation in peace.

Kids These Days

something happened to me the other day. i'm sure those that were there with me will never let me forget it.

when i was younger, this family moved in two houses down from mine. at first it was no big deal; their son closest to my age, Raul, was a trouble maker and kind of a douche, but hey, we all were. my friends and i in the neighborhood just kinda avoided him and all was copasetic. as the years went on and i became more aware, the status quo was changing. all of the sudden i started realizing all these new vehicles and people coming in and out of that house. they frequently forget that they have pets and let their bulldogs run rampid in the streets. . .or my driveway. now, it's present day and all i see out of that house now is tweaker/tweak dealer Raul who comes home in a taxi almost every night, his big brother/cousin/relative, the crazy old man who sweeps the driveway and lawn (also seems to be on drugs), and their 5 or so little kids and their friends. the ocasional unnecassarily loud argument, and mariachi nights have crooned me to sleep many a time, as well.

i could care less about the crazy guy (except when he sucks me into conversation i can't even follow) and the bigger one or even Raul. but these kids have got to go. don't get me wrong i like kids; i like to think we have alot in common. the desire to have fun all the time, no real responsability, hanging out with my friends everyday, playing with G.I.JOEs, but these kids are truly menacing.

it's the afternoon in mid june, and Justin, Wayne, and myself were sitting in Justin's truck across the street from my house. Wayne points out the little kids (about 6 or 7 of them) on my neighbor/good friend Rob's porch. we watch as they proceed to ding-dong-ditch his house. Mike, rob's father, walks out on cue and catches the little pests because they have poor hiding skills. he advances them and gives them a light-hearted scolding; laughs all around. they got off easy. then they proceed to my house. i observe quite hawkishly. they get on my porch and stand there for a minute. for their sake(there's no telling what my father might have said to these kids), i poke my head out the window and yell, "Eh!" and they all look at Rob's house and skedaddle thinking Mike can see through walls.

cool beans, they're off my porch. they didn't however, leave my house. they continued to rough house on my lawn, punching and kicking each other; and you should have seen the boys. . . these kids have a blatant disregard for other peoples property; pushing each other into nearby cars, nearing taking off my neighbor's rearview mirror. having seen enough and wanting this to be carried out on their own lawns, we get out of the truck and sit on my porch to smoke a cigarette hoping the kids would be sheepish and wander away. no such luck. they continue to beat each other up and swear and dent peoples vehicles, all right in front of us. we sit there appalled at what we are witnessing, these kids have no shame for acting like barbarians with no sense of caution towards other people's things, even when we're right there!

finally, my oprotunity to end this comes. one of the kids throws off his shirt to fight his "pal." one of the girls picks it up and throws it on my bushes. i felt like Sherri O'Terry from SNL when she plays the crazy porch lady (oh, yeah? you think that's funny? throwing a football at an old lady? i keep it, it's mine now!). i went and picked up te shirt, then headed back towards my porch. i didn't even make it back to the first step before i hear the shirtless kid yell, "Gimme my shirt, FAGGOT!" which stopped me dead in my tracks.

what am i supposed to do? how do i react? i turn around and see the kid. he's looking all fat, i mean tough, with his shirt off and contorted face. this kid was ready to throw down. idiot. i ask him a simple question, "Why?" . . .nothing. "Why would you say that?" i elaborate. "gimme back my shirt." the kid said, sounding a little less tough. "don't put it on my bushes" i replied. at that moment all his friends are telling him that i'm right, that his shirt was in fact on my property, making it mine (not really, but they're kids, bad ones at that.) "Do you just call random people you don't know names like that?" i asked. he just looks at me with a deer-in-the-headlights look. "you really want to make someone you don't even know angry like that? you don't know what people are gonna do; i'm twice your size and age, do you think it's wise pickin a fight with me? is this what you kids do, mess around on peoples houses, disrespecting their property, then call them names?" i begin to interigate. "we were just playin" one of the girls says. "no, what your friend said was not playing. he's gonna say something to the wrong person one day, someone not as nice as me." the girl begins again saying, "well, thats just him. he's like that." i turn to the kid "why did you call me that?" he says nothing, holding his shirt(yeah, i gave it back) over half his face, finally embarrassed. "Do you think i look gay? is that why you said that?" he begins to chuckle a bit. "i don't think it's very funny." i immediately snap back with as serious of a face as i could muster(i was loving being "the adult." i've never given a scolding before, i'm used to being in this kids shoes, though i was never that rude). the kid abruptly stopped laughing. none of their parents were around (how convenient) so i told them to go play on their own lawn and not to let this happen again. i told the kid he was pathetic (which now that i look back on it, was probably as harsh as it was over his head). i'm not sorry though. there's something wrong with that family's abilty to raise kids. these are supposed be the people that run the country when i'm old? actually, i don't have to worry, more than half of those kids will likely end up in juvie by the time they're my age anyway.

it's just disturbing the way these kids behaved. if anything, it inspired me to be a good parent. those kids got me real worked up, making the neighborhood their personal playground. i was fed up to say the least. i'll be very surprised to see them playing around my house from now on. well, now that that's off my chest, it's time for a smoke!

indecision gives me indegestion

Ever since i started working in the food industry, and even a couple times before that, i've found i enjoy nothing in my refrigerator. i could be as hungry as an etheopian with a tapeworm and still just stare at the fridge. sometimes i'll even prepare something; only to take a bite and be over it. nothing seems satisfying unless it's made by someone else and/or requires payment. especially sandwiches. i blame TOGO'S for that. after eating a delicous sandwich made with great ingredients made by me for me to my specifications every day for a year and half, really takes the wind out of a bologna sandwich's sails.

perhaps it's because i'm picky. the only mayonaise i can tolerate from a store is best foods, and even that kinda sucks. people who eat miracle whip should die. it's not mayonaise, it even says so on the jar,"salad dressing." people who put miracle whip on their salads should also die. don't tell me i can't tell the difference, i can. even a mentally handicapped person could, they're even different colors. my favorite mayonaise? Subway's lite mayonaise. it's delicous. and i hate Subway. second is Ken's extra heavy mayonaise, the product that TOGO'S uses. you can't find it at the supermarket, but TOGO's always got them in these huge jars, so maybe Costco. . . . which is a super duper market, there's a difference. anyway, it's what glues the sandwich together, what makes it moist enough to eat, what enhances the flavor of the meat and if it tastes like shit, so does the sandwich. <---- definately too picky, notice the paragraph on mayonaise.

next is bread. the most important part and only constant of a sandwich. if we had wonder bread at this house, i'd probably eat more sandwiches, no lie. white bread is king and all you health nuts that say wheat is better need to order new tongues. better for you, i can see, but better tasting? now that's just blasphemy. and wheat bread made to be "fancy" with nuts and herbs and other cruchy things that don't belong in sandwich bread, is the worst for sandwich making. i refuse it.

finally, toppings. i'm pretty picky in this realm, too. i like the shredded letuce. . .and no other form. don't put pieces of iceberg lettuce from the garden salad mix on my sandwich, "no thank you mother, go sit in time out and think about what you've done." i also like a little onion on my sandwich. A LITTLE. every goddamned time i go to subway i ask for a little bit of onions, "not too much" i always say. sure enough, every time they pile it on. i'd hate to see what the normal amount is. so i ask if they can take some off and they remove two of the twenty onion rings they put on. this reminds of the times i've went through the drive thru (and yes, it's thru. try finding a fast food joint with one that says drive through. they don't exsist) and looked in the bag seeing that they gave me no ketchup. then, when i ask them for extra ketchup they give me two packets. what the duece (no pun intended)? so i ask again for extra ketchup. two more. GRRRRRR just give me an effin handful of them you cheap, unhappy, lazy tub of lard. and a cup of water while you're at it.

so why is it that nothing we make for ourselves is satisfying, or is it just me? is it another element of the "gotta have it now" generation or are we merely developing good taste? in either case, the resaurant biz has corrupted my taste buds, increased my waistline, and depleted my bank account. i'm not bitter, but maybe a little hungry. i want to heat up a Tina's bean and chee, but i know that once it's ready, i'd rather eat carpet. dollar menu, here i come!

Haterade.

ok, so in southern California, we are in a streak of record high temperatures. i don't want your sympathy, hell, i kinda like it. anytime you can feel comfortable hangin out outside with a cold beverage at 9:30 pm wearing a tank top and shorts, i'm down. but let's get one thing straight: cold beverages on days like these, need not to be so difficult to drink. when i drive my happy ass to the gas station and get my gatorade, i want to drink it quickly. like, drinking at the register, quickly. rob and i, on our way to the beach, conclude that it is too damn hot not to have cool beverages and we stop at chevron. i get the gatorade fierce bottle; flavor: grape. i pay for it and twist the mouth cap and squeeze. . . nothing. "what gives?" i ask rob. so i squeeze again. perhaps it was the heat that was dibilitating my thought process, but i got cranky quick. "what, is it sealed like a goddamned ketchup bottle!?" sure enough, it was.

honestly, why?

i ripped it open, re-screwed the cap, and by that time, i was over the gatorade and on to the better business bureau. i don't know why this agravated me so much, but you can be sure i will be sticking to the wide mouth gatorades from now on.

Drinking at flux sucks and i'd probably do it again.

It's thursday night, and after an unexpectedly busy night of work, some co-workers of mine decide to go to a bar down the street, Flux. To my excitement, Brett (former bartender at the lobster) is the doorman. this is a good thing because until the sixteenth of July, i'm not supposed to be in such a place. so i decide to go; even IF it is a gay bar. having never gone before, i think to myself: "how gay can it be? gay people are fun to party with, so i've heard." i walk in, greet brett, who was already on a good one, then i looked around. this place was no doubt a very gay bar. pictures on the walls of pefect male torsos, with no faces, just the bodies. no biggie, i can ignore the pictures. that's when i look at the clientel; now, i'm not quite sure what i expected to see, but it was crawling with gay people. i know, duh. but these were the overly flamboyant-type-of-gay-you-only-see-in-movies-gay. limp wristed, make-up wearing, feaux-hawk sporting, unnatural lisping guys and no make-up wearing, overly pierced, saggy pant wearing, short haired gals. guys grinding on guys while standing on tables so that everyone can see. there were some hot lesbians, don't get me wrong. however, knowing that you have no chance of anything, really takes the novelty away. my thoughts? cool beans, i need to get drunk instantly. and that's pretty much what i did.

the bartender made me a long island as stiff as johnny cochran. litteraly like an ounce of non-alcoholic beverage in at least a 16oz glass. i had two in about forty minutes. as i no longer habitually smoke jane, i'm not eating like i used to. in fact, i ate nothing that whole day, not a crumb. after the second drink i decided to shoot pool. i order a catus cooler shot which again he purposely made stronger than lou ferrigno in his prime. needless to say i was pretty tossed at this point. i started my game of billiards and i started well; completing some pretty difficult bank shots, dropping more than half of my balls (trust me, this is not the time or the place for puns). then in a moment of absolute drunkness, i take a shot i know a cannot make and end up sinking the eight ball (which, by the way, has to be at least 75% of my losses in pool). that was the closest i got to winning. feeling like a pansy for losing to a gay guy and no longer able to even connect beer bottle with mouth (how did i get this beer?), i answer my seizing phone and attempt to talk with my good friend rob. he was on his way home from a party so i decided to call it a night and meet him there (we live next door).

the walls, now acting as bumber rails at a bowiling alley, guide me to the patio where my co-workers were. i proceeded to empty my beer into allison's glass and tell my co-workers that i was on my way out. driving was probably, wait, sctratch that, was DEFINATELY a bad idea, but as usual i debate with myself for ten seconds before choosing the wrong idea as the best. i only live around the block, if i were nolan ryan i could throw a rock at my house; it's cool to drive (which in sober hindsight, is probably an even better argument for walking). so i do just that, with no complications, as luck would have it. i stagger onto robert's stoop, and suddenly i get a grasp on how brutally intoxicated i have become. smoking four cigarettes in about twenty minutes and focusing on objects for no more than half a second, i wait for robert. he finaly shows up and i yell something inappropriate and mumbled, allowing him and his girlfriend to instantly size-up my level of inebriation. somewhere around 9.6 on a scale of one to drunk. assessing the situation, robert and his girlfreind tiana decide it would be best to get me some water and bread. i enjoyed the water, but from what i'm told, i wasn't a fan of the bread. i took one bite and spit it out, then proceeded to throw the bread in the gutter and yell something to the effect of: "ahhhh don' waaan jis shit!" then i throw up in the rose bed. they've never blossomed so well. after about half an hour of my drunken slurrs, robert helps me home as i apperently demanded of him. i get inside and being way too loud, i slam the door shut and attempt to walk down the hall. my shoulder closelines the multitude of pictures hanging on the wall and i shout profane words as luckily, none of them fell (they are however, more crooked. . . . still.).

so i'm in the house, score. what could go wrong? i seem to always forget how much i hate trying to sleep while drunk. so i lay down and shut my eyes and immediately start spinning. now, this had always fascinated me: how no matter the level of drunk i am, when i need to yack, i will always find a clean and safe way to do it. like the mother, hopped up on adrenaline, lifting a car to save her child, i can find a towel or bucket or beanie to puke in. my favorite: my friend told me he threw up in an old shoe on a desperate night. priceless. anyway, spinning makes me instantly sick and i manufactured a safe landing pad made out of two or three towels in a split second and wiped the tears from eyes as my stomach juices graced the towels. i've thrown up all i've drank minutes before this in rob's reoses and ate nothing the whole day, so this really is stomach acid; stinging the nostrils, watering the eyes, and corroding my esophagus. i need water so i stumble in the bathroom and drink from my richly calcium deposited faucet. yummmm. then i dry heave for a couple minutes, praying to the porcelain gods, and yelling at myself aloud. "why are you so ffffffuggin drunk?!" i would question myself. maybe if i lie hear with the lights on and the soothing sound of the bathroom fan, i can get some rest, i thought. get real. so i relocate once more, this time to the couch. TV, that'll do it, i thought. as soon as i turned it on, i was intoxicated to the point where the picture on the screen kept scrolling from top to bottom of my viewing frame. to which i yelled aloud in desperation, "Nooo! i cannneven focus on tila tequila's booooobs!" sad and sick from the thought of tequila, i tried the bed one more time. i probably cycled through these three options about three times before finally passing out in my bed with the bathroom light, fan, and television set still on.

i've alway been jealous of the people who get drunk and pass out without complication. the kind of deep sleep that is more closely related to hibernation than anything. the snoozing through being duct-taped to the underside of the top bunk-knocked out. sleeping is such an unbearable, but admittedly funny process for me. "so why drink if you just go through the same horrible routine everytime, seth?" one might ask. mitch hedberg, god rest his soul, said it best when he said, "you don't just not eat an apple because it'll turn into an apple core, do you?" drinking is fun and though it may have it's downsides, the once-in-a-while thrill is worth the shitty hangover the next morning. at least, it is for me. and i don't go around questioning your vices, do i? "why waste your life indoors by making useless scale models of entire cities with working subway systems and traffic lights?" loser.

so all in all, flux, once i was drunk, was not that bad. gay peple know how to have fun even though it might not look right to me. i really have no right to be judgemental or angry or have any ill opinion at all since i was in THEIR territory and decided to stay there for the sneaky bar going experience. i didn't get hit on, though the bartender did try to flirt with me, and i ultimately got drunk as all hell. and as long as my straight co-workers are going, i'd probably go again.

now i'm gonna light me up a cigarette.

the Brazilian, the professor, and the grandpa

before i start i'd like to comment on how the title for this blog reminds me of C.S. Lewis. i think i'll rent the Chronicles of Narnia tonight.

so recently i got back into online poker. i stopped for a good while playing only house games to hone my skill. until i realized alot of people i know have an account on either Poker Stars or Full Tilt. i now have both. i must confess that because of my addiction to online poker i no longer have time in my life porn. sorry you had to hear it like this, porn, but we're through. every so often while on the full tilt i'll come across a friend or two and we collude games for the most part in our favor. the topic of this particualar blog comes from a tournament my buddy matto and i were playing. before the first hand was dealt matto informed me that there was a Brazilian amongst us. not the best news. "dang, that must mean he's really good. Brazilians are good at everything" i said to matto via msn messenger; as not to be found out by the rest of the people in the tournament. "yeah like nuts" my half-inept co-worker replies. the tournament ensues and finally it's down to three players: myself, matto, and the Brazilian. great. couldn't help telling matto "i told you so" and it wasn't long before the Brazilian took him out. so now it was the show-down. Brazilian superiority vs. American. . .just american i guess. he has a larger stack than me and i waste no time in trying to chip away at it. i go all-in and he calls. he loses, i double up. now having the larger stack i start to bully and bully until he goes all-in. i call, i lose. doubling him up. this goes on for about ten-fifteen minutes until finally i defeat him. victory tasted like the sweet nectar of the delicous fruits grown in the garden of eden. adrenaline and pure, unadulturated patriotism running through veins i e-celebrate the victory with cap-locked key strokes of emotion with my partner in crime and fellow American, matto. GO USA!!!

After work that night i continued to play poker all night into early morning. the next day i went to spanish a couple minutes late. ok so like 20 minutes late. i was half an hour late. exausted and lacking coffee/redbull/caffine IV i sit in the back of the class with my friends Kate Simone and Alfredo. me and simone get to arguing about some stupid event that happened over the weekend and i, being tired and grumpy and in no mood to get bitched at, get very frustrated and borderline angry and request that the subject be dropped. done. so now there's like thirty minutes left of Spanish 2 and i want nothing more that to storm out, angrily light a cigarette, smoke and go to bed. the section in the book was focusing on ermergencies and showed a picture of a girl smoking that had fallen asleep and lit her book on fire. the teacher had seen Simone smoking before and called her out. " i seen you smoking. es no bueno." my ears perk up and suddenly a flare of anger/intrigue woke me from my half-slumber. i wipe the drool of my mouth and focus my eyes and notice Simone is being nice and tring to get past the whole thing but out professor continues, "when you apply for life insurance, there are two prices," he says. "One for people who don't smoke, one for people that do. their business is your life, and they know you're going die" --!!!!!!!!-- now i'm angrier than an blind person at the grand canyon. not only are we not on task, but every smoker in the room is getting ridiculed and singled out. "i'm not a smoker so i don't have to worry about this, but i say it for you." he says as if he's doing us a favor. no, he's rubbing in rock-salt on my wound, "would you like some vinegar with that?.. . ." still joking and trying to get past the subject, simone says someting about quitting befre applying and he shuts her down with threats of test to prove one is a smoker; this guy is for real. he says something about cigarettes releasing the same feeling of pleasure as heroin and finally i can no longer hold it in, my calm exterior and courteous silence shot to shit, my views and integrity under attack, i broke the seal, " what, so now we're herion junkies!? everyone here knows cigarettes are bad, lets move on" i said in an angry tone with a harsh brow. "See, it makes them angry." the prfoessor says. what!!!! i 'm appalled. the class is now laughing, a mockery of us is being made. rage has filled my head and my voice gets louder. " we know what we're doing to oursleves as well as everyone in the classroom. i'm paying to learn spanish not to get a lecture on the hazards of smoking. let's move on please." he kinda stops and says " See, they don't like to hear the truth. lets go to excersise B."i bet he ejoyed that. feeling somewhat embarrassed towards my outburst i slump back into my chair and let the embers smoulder. as i walk out the door i hope he says something so i can tell him how i really feel without the class as an excuse to hold me back. wisely, he said nothing to me. i lost all respect for my professor that day. the lack of professionalism on his part! singling out a group of people and making them feel shitty about their choices and even condemning them. all while he should be teaching a subject people pay him for. not what a go to school for (not that i go there for it's intended purpose either, but i certainly don't go to be offended.)

now i must depart, for my room is filthy and in a few hours, my grandpa will be visiting from Iowa and sleeping in my room of all places. no one ever sleeps in my room on vaction. it's always my sisters room. not today! cleaning the room isn't all bad. . . so far i 've already found $1.35, socks i swore were eaten by the everlasting black hole which lives under my bed, and also today i found my floor! i still haven't decided what to do about the incriminating "arcata greens" and "4:20" stickers. had to relocate all pariphanelia to unfindable locations. it may sound selfish and unwelcoming, but i really don't like when family comes to visit. it's not even the people, it's the whole event. there are may reasons for this. first, before their arrival, my parents get the family into this week long cleaning binge outdone only by tweekers. this sucks. not just your run-of-the-mill clean the house routine, every nook and cranie (what the hell is a cranie?) must be spotless, no stone unturned. slightly high off the various cleaning chemical fumes, i scrub my desk which hasn't been scrubed since. . . um, it just hasn't been scrubbed, nedless to say my arm went limp. i imagine the feeling is very similar to the feeling you would have if you had string cheese for an arm.

second, when they do get here i have to be on my best behavior, the parental units will probably ask me not to smoke around our guests. heaven forbid they see what we're REALLY like. i hate being fake around my own family. something about that just doesn't click with me.

third, i have to sleep on an inflatable mattress which is more like a sleeping balloon. when i wake up my back is on the floor even though it was suspended inches off the ground hours prior. and i sleep in the living room, nuff said. i have to knock to enter my own room. hate it. i do love my family though. i think it's because i only see them every even year. i wish i could see them more so that these visitation aren't so awkward and. . .clean. it is nice to see him out here instead of going to iowa, the weather is much better here. he comes tonight, i'll be working. hopefully i'm not too bent out of shape to put a happy face on for G-pa after work.
time to go to webMD to see how i can sober up from this lysol coma.

the new guy

yeah so i got one. no one's going to read these, except for maybe like two people. it's kind of liberating knowing that i can write just about anything and no one will notice. wouldn't it be cool if i held secrets of our gorvenment and spewed information like, "AIDS was created by the U.S. government as means for biological warfare and tested (released) it in Africa. they have a cure, but are withholding it to save themselves from a pointing finger." <--- conspiracy. . .or fact. no one would ever notice and i would never be convicted of treason and maybe Matt Owens saves the world or better yet, with my knowledge at his expense, the universe(s). more than one universe? it's possible.

Gee this whole idea is stupid. what's the point of these blogs. is it to regurgitate random thoughts whirling in ones head? dude, get a myspace. i am a closet optimist, and maybe this blog will give me a place to vent frustrations from the lobster and/or other parts of life and will ultimately make my life less stressful. ah, who am i kidding, blogger.com is no Dr. Phil. i'm bound to be miserable for the rest of my life.

i'm not that miserable, however, i do like company. they probably aren't related. i should really have nothing to complain about, i live for free, the parents stock the fridge (though they might as well not. all of it is generic healthy bullshit. it's half the price and half the taste. it's a good thing jack in the box and wendy's are within spitting distance) and i drive a car i didn't pay for. i have good friends, a job and i "attend" school. so why all the angst? well, i'm sorry, but if one more guy complains that his chick-drink Sunset Passion Collada isn't strong enough for his liking, i'm taking the nearest fork and shoving it in his eye. order a damn Jack and coke, pansy. it's like they are surprised that a drink called Sunset Passion is cleverly designed to mask the alchohol it contains. IT'S MADE FOR GIRLS! the name alone makes my penis jump back inside me.

well, it seems this blog thing does serve a purpose. i feel better. i think now is a great time for a smoke.