Thursday, May 7, 2015

Losing My Mind: A Tale of Exhaustion

Note: This post was written in January of 2015. Rough times. I'm over it now. Living with my girlfriend in a nice little guesthouse with no shared walls or floors. I'm past the bull noise. Enjoy my retroactive suffering!


I'm exhausted and tapering off my antidepressants. I'm not doing well. I can't get proper sleep at my apartment because I made the mistake of believing that I had in fact rented a structurally sound top floor apartment. I did not. I can hear everything my neighbor does and she can probably hear me. She says she has gotten used to it. I will never get used to feeling her stomp through my floor. I can feel her door slams through my bed. I'm forced to wake up when she wakes up, which is too early for me. I'm seriously considering staying in a hotel for a few days just to get some sleep because I'm losing it.

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I'm going to break my lease here, which is something I've never done. I thought briefly about buying a house and paying a mortgage, but LA is so fucking expensive that the only houses I could afford were next to the freeway and/or shacks in questionable neighborhoods. Any house listed below $600,000 in LA is a piece of shit.

I am growing sick of the city. Fuck, I am done with any city right now. I need quiet. I need space. I need no neighbors and total privacy. I had a guesthouse in LA for 3 years. Should have kept it. It wasn't perfect but I should've stayed there. I was happy there. Actually, the last two months, I was not happy there, what with the combination of the next door neighbor building AN ENTIRE 2 STORY HOUSE ONTO THE BACK OF HIS HOUSE, and a leak in the roof. The construction guys hammering at 7 in the morning is what started driving me crazy. I don't think I've ever gotten back on track. That was 6 months ago. I've had a short fuse and been physically and emotionally exhausted for 6 months and I'm finally spent. It's good to know that my personal limit for bullshit is around 6 months. Yep, good to know.

Downstairs neighbor lady runs a juice company out of her apartment and runs the blender all day. She also has a roommate now, unbeknownst to my landlord. This new roommate is just as inconsiderate about making noise as she is, but then again, this apartment is built like a cardboard tree-fort. It looks nice, but Ted Bundy also looked nice and he murdered people.

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Oof, I sound angry and bitter.

Girlfriend was supposed to move in to this apartment. This was gonna be the place where we lived together. I took on the high cost of this shithole alone, knowing that she'd eventually move in and ease the financial burden. Not anymore. She won't move in here and I don't blame her. Fuck this place, I wish it burned down while I was walking my dog. That would be perfect, actually. No loss of life, just one less shitty structure in LA.

I don't even want to live in LA. Can't stop thinking about my escape really. Actually thinking about suicide on a very casual, surface level. Ooooooooooooooo. Uh oh! No, mustn't say that. Mustn't think about the sweet release of the end. The pull of oblivion. Can't talk about it or they'll lock you up. Don't even mention it or a switch gets flipped and people want to help you. By help you, I mean institutionalize you. And once you've been in a mental facility, the stink will never wash off you. That little nugget of information can be used to assassinate your character for as long as you live. Can't adopt a kid. If you ever get sued or have to go to court, the lawyers will dredge up that shit like an old lobster trap. "Well look what we got here! A suicidal lobster! Explain yourself, suicidal lobster. Go on, tell us non-suiciders what the hell you were thinking. Why would you even consider opting out of this grand world of ours? Speak up, boy!"

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I'm desperate. My 1st priority is sleep. 2nd priority is finding a new place. 3rd priority is building a giant walk-in microwave. Things might be better if I could get some sleep and a new place to live.

I'm very tired. Going to sleep now. Can't wait until I get woken up. Life is great. I wish I was dead. Cemetery folk have it made.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Flash Your High Beams

We here at the gabbin' cabin like to talk about the dogs we've murdered on our way to the championship of roof jumping. From roof to roof we frolic with the truth that our days are numbered but the number of the beast will never be branded upon our necks. Trek through the apartment complex and satisfy the lonely housewife that wears a turban filled with rubies and Judge Dredd stickers pasted to her titties. Get real close, but never get burned.

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How to Buy a Used Fridge


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- The wife of one of my acquaintances thinks she is a radiant goddess of class and erotic features that devastate the eyes and boners of all that look upon her. But in truth, and we're speaking strictly about facts here, she is a gross sack of shit. Her pale, fleshy folds of fat are being used as incubators for nests of bacteria and her breath smells like a chemo fart. Even though she is obese, she gets drunk on 2 drinks, at which point she demands to leave whatever party she's at. Oh, and she sucked a stripper's dick the night before her own wedding. Nearly forgot that detail.

- I don't trust anybody else's idea of clean. You all missed a spot.

- I don't think I'd buy a used car from an obese man. The suspension is probably all fucked up. Who knows what that guy's been eating in the car on the way home from work, hiding his food intake from his very patient wife.

He's going to Wendy's and he's getting a fucking Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger from the drive thru and he's shoving that shit into his fucking mouth in the parking lot. He feels that short rush and then the cannonball of self hatred right afterwards. But then he rationalizes his behavior, telling himself he deserves a treat because he works hard and life is hard. It's true, life is hard, but I'm not buying a car from that pig.

I used to be fat, and now I hate fat people. Actually, I've always hated fat people, including myself. But now I'm thin, baby! So suck a toaster strudel, ya porcine shit slurpers!  

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Sunday, February 23, 2014

Obama and His Secret Cat Food Addiction

Barack Obama eats cat food. It's all he eats, in fact. Sure, he'll pretend to eat a hot dog at the state fair for a photo-op, but as soon as the photos are taken, he spits that wiener out with violent force.

One of his aides brings him a spoonful of Meow Mix and he lets out a low moan of pleasure as the fishy slop hits his tongue. "That's what I'm talking about!" he screams at the sky and then rips his shirt off, revealing a large tattoo on his chest of Garfield getting butt-fucked by Tigger.

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His tongue extends to a superhuman length and he starts to lick where Tigger's cock meets Garfield's asshole. "Oh yeah, you like that, dontcha boys? That gets you all riled up, huh? Well, I'm riled up, too!" Brown liquid streams down his pant legs and into his socks. Diarrhea.

"I'm the luckiest motherfucker on this earth!" Obama declares, as he rips his pants off and sprays frothy diarrhea from his ass while spinning, creating a mighty fecal sprinkler.    

And then a old skeletal Japanese man in a shopping cart rolls up, using a hockey stick to propel himself. He points the stick accusingly at Obama, "Mr. President, why you squirt shit, sir?"

Obama shits out a shotgun and blows the old Japanese man's head off. The shitting stops to a trickle. "Bring me more cat food." he bellows.

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Monday, June 24, 2013

Searching For Sugar Man: Criminally Boring

I actually got angry after watching "Searching for Sugar Man" last night. Not that the documentary contained offensive ideas or anything. I just didn't see what the big deal was. I've heard a lot about the movie and how it was shocking, epic, and one of a kind. It centers around a musician known as Rodriguez, whose music was so great and why hadn't anybody heard of him before? Well, probably because his music isn't very good and his lyrics are written in the vein of an eighth-grader who just started listening to Bob Dylan and plans on being an influential poet because that's the only way to wake people up. If that means rubbing your dick all over a Chinese food menu and shitting on the floor of a mausoleum, then we all need to wake up. (huh?)

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What bridge troll finds this fascinating? Other people and their tastes are wrong. I'm a miserable man with psychological problems and if it's not about me and what I like, then it must be shot out of the sky with an RPG, like a helicopter filled with puppies of a breed I do not care for. 

The mystery surrounding him is boring. He supposedly killed himself on stage, and big surprise, didn't. Turns out he's just this soft spoken Navajo looking dude living in Detroit, sitting at his kitchen table with a cigarette and coffee, looking a lot like a criminal. I get the feeling that Sugar Man has stabbed up a few folks in his day.

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All the interview subjects, including a hilariously hyperbolic record producer with an obvious toupee, go on and on about how much Rodriguez changed their life and they can't understand why he isnt a huge star.
Well, here's a couple reasons.

1. His voice is a shitty imitation of Bob Dylan, who has the most legendary shittiest voice ever.
2. Fuck this movie.

Monday, December 17, 2012

An Open Letter To My Friend Rob S. (Top 5 Ways to Cheer Up in 2013)

Hey Buddy Bud,

Sorry to hear about this being the worst year of your life so far. I wish I could say it came as a surprise to hear it, but judging from the tone of the emails I got from you this year, it's pretty clear that you're all depressed and shit. So I decided to provide a list of things for you to do that will surely cheer you up in 2013... 

1. Get your fuck on. It doesn't matter with who, or with what, or if they happen to be Cuban, just stick your dick inside them. They'll get a kick out of it, too.


2. Murder! Sta
b somebody, preferably a Cuban. But do it in the dark so no one's the wiser.
3. Take psychedelic drugs. Even if you have a bad trip, which is unlikely, you'll have a story to tell and something real to be scared of. But mostly,
drugs help you do a figurative zoom out on Google maps, and make you realize that you're just a guy in a house, amongst other people in other houses. This will help you feel less alone, because you'll realize that everyone's alone, except for Cubans, who are filled with life and must be murdered.


4. Get a dog. Name him Grampler. Feed him pennies.

5. Pick a fight with an animal at the zoo. I suggest a tortoise. Tho
se leafy-green vegetable eating fucks make the perfect enemy because they're slow, you always know exactly where they are, and they don't have a decent attack. They can't fight back!

Go to Mr. Tortoise's habitat and stare him do
wn. When your gaze is met, chuck a fire cracker at him and yell, "Stay away from my wife!". Don't worry, that armored bastard can handle it. When you get kicked out of the zoo, tell the security guard about how the tortoise got what was coming. And now that you've been blacklisted from the zoo, spread the word and watch the pussy roll in! Women love a dangerous man who breaks the rules and isn't allowed at the zoo.

Life is better w
hen you have enemies, and the best enemies are the ones kept in cages. You hold the advantage 100% of the time!


Well, I hope some of these suggestions are helpful, and I wish you a very happy new year, filled with infinite possibilities. Go forth and be the horrible beast of a human you know you can be. 

Kid Douche

Friday, August 24, 2012

Me Bones Gwaan Crumble

A month ago, I was in Chicago, burning the candle at both ends, having a really good time visiting my friends, all 8 of them. I drove from my parents' house in the suburbs to Chicago on 9 of the 12 free nights I had, all night. I then spent 2 full days doing wedding stuff for my sister's wedding. I gave a speech. I provided the obligatory video montage with photos of the bride and groom growing up through the years. It was actually pretty fun, the reception part in particular, and I got to see my entire extended family, which was mostly a good thing.

Physically and mentally drained, I decided to rest for a day and a half before my flight back to LA. I was supremely busy for 12 out of the 15 days I was in Chicago, and there was a relentless heat wave the whole time I was in town. 3 straight days of 100 degree temperatures to make me regret leaving my parents' a/c teepee. The average temperature for my 15 day stay was 93.8 degrees. Eyebrows? Melted. Neck and shoulders? Sweaty and Stiff!

harsh feelings

The result of my trip, besides having a blast, was that I exhausted myself and lost 6 pounds from running around in the heat. When I got back to LA, I felt weak and tired and achy and stressed out. I had to gain some weight back. No big deal. Just take it easy for a week or two and get myself built up a little. Easy enough, right?

Enter stupidity.

I started taking digestive enzymes in order to gain weight faster, hoping that with the help of these magical pills, I could eat more food at once and absorb more precious nutrients so my old bones would bulk up and I'd finally turn into the robust lumberjack I was born to be. Instead, the digestive enzymes fucked my stomach and digestive system up. I was shitting at a Babe Ruthian level. I felt nauseous and dizzy when I walked. I stopped taking the digestive enzymes with my meals after 3 days but I didn't feel right for a week.

future skull visor

The truth hit me hard. I have the physical dynamics of a toddler dying of old age. I'm extremely sensitive to any pill that has a remote possibility for side effects. Memo to future wife: Poisoning me is a piece of cake. Did I forget you at the gas station again? Put a Tylenol in my yogurt and enjoy the funeral, baby.

weird bed kid

I'd be a terrible Viking. I'd die on the boat within 3 days, never knowing the joys of looting a church and kicking a nun in the chest, which is the whole point of joining the Vikings.

I'd be the worst soldier ever. If I was sent to fight in Afghanistan, I'd take excessive naps, get sand rash, and complain about how the rations hurt my stomach.

I'd be great at dying young in the 1800's, though. That's right in my wheelhouse. I'd start feeling weird and send for a doctor. The doctor would diagnose me with milk leg fever and proclaim that nothing could be done. Then he'd chloroform my wife and steal all our butter and kerosene.

awsome antlers

All yucks aside, I'll probably live until I die. I find comfort in that, yet I'm uncomfortable all the time.