Thunder Spook Juice

True story time!


I went to a loft show/party last night called Go Folk Yourself. It was less of a show and more like an uncomfortable smoky speakeasy in a building situated 20 feet away from a gas station. The performers had nice guitars and courage, but couldn't sing for shit. I tuned them out and struck up a conversation with a weird loner girl. Her hair was greasy, dyed red, and chopped all over the place. I noticed a picture button on her filthy satchel and asked her what it was.

She said, "That's the Hindu god, Ganesh."





There's a woman on the button as well. I ask about her and who she's supposed to be. She answers, "Oh, that's Ganesh's mother."

I respond, "A woman giving birth to an elephant? That doesn't happen too much these days."

She asks me what I mean, and I reply, "The way I understand it, with the world as it is now, it's impossible for a woman to give birth to an elephant god. No way. Not happening."

And she says, "Well, maybe you're limiting the way you experience life."





After she said that, I got scared and wanted to run away so I never had to talk to her again, but that would have been a breach of etiquette, so I hung in there. Who am I to violate the sanctity of human interaction?

She stared at me and I went silent. Her big fuckin' crazy eyes were burning a hole through my head. This went on for a minute and then I saw her lips move as she said something. I asked her to repeat what she said because I couldn't hear with all the music going.

She looks at my forehead and says, "Do you have any change?"

I say, "What?"

"I need some money for the bus. Can you give me a nickel?"

I reply, "No. I don't carry change around. I don't like the weight of it in my pockets."

What I wanted to say was, "Fuck you, shitty idiot!" And I wanted her face to melt away, revealing some intergalactic bird head. I'd like her to sprout wings and fly out the window like a psycho buzzard. I really wanted some supreme moment to occur.

But she just awkwardly shuffled away from where we were standing. And I couldn't have been more relieved.

I Got Drugged

Personal/True Story Time...


Well, I'm back to normal after some unpleasantness, losing 2 plus days in a maze of narcotic haze. I took a sleeping pill/antidepressant I was iffy about. Remeron. My uneasiness was based upon internet research involving people's experiences with the drug, which were mostly negative. But, being a dumb bastard, I had to see for myself if a little yellow tablet could help me fall asleep. It did. And then it fucked my world up.




After swallowing the pill late Monday night, I slept from 2:30am to 12:30pm Tuesday. During which, my dreams were pure visual chaos. Swimming in fluid behind the lens of a giant eye is one of the scenes I recall. Yeah.




Waking up was hard as fuck. I just stayed still, staring at my sheets. I didn't move until about 1:30, when my bladder bulged to the max. I got up and was unsteady on my feet. I thought my head was too high off the ground, so I slumped, like an old man shuffling to the toilet. My legs were weak.

Every inch of my body was heavy. My blood replaced with Ragu. I didn't feel real, and I didn't feel anything, really. My emotions were removed. I tried to panic, but nothing happened. I figured I would just have to wait until the pill left my system. It couldn't last into the night. I'd be fine by dinnertime. Wrong! I had a whole 36 hours of dazed immobility to look forward to.

Also, whenever I got dizzy and had a falling sensation, which was often, a shock wave tore through my body. A pulse pounding, heart racing, over the top adrenaline rush gripped my chest; only to be subdued by the medicine immediately. Like an engine being revved and shut off simultaneously. It felt exactly like when you wake up from a bad dream. One of those awful nightmares with a fucked up ending.




I felt trapped within my own body and hopeless. Total malaise. My body was so weak, and my mind was so fuzzy. I surrendered and fell asleep again at 7pm. Woke up at 10pm not feeling any more alert. Went to the store to get some ice cream, because I hadn't eaten all day.

I was convinced that a cop would pull me over and send my ass to jail for DWI, or that I'd fall asleep and cruise off a bridge... but I ended up safely at home, spooning ice cream into my mouth feebly. Fell asleep at 6am, woke up at 3pm Wednesday. Still mildly under a spell, I hung out and watched TV, not really focusing on anything for too long. Still emotionally removed. Still heavy lidded. And my left eye started twitching, which sucks because now I'm aware of my eyes. I don't want to be aware of my eyes.




But late last night, I laughed for the first time in days. There was a sketch on Human Giant where some guy's girlfriend is having an affair with a killer whale, so he orders a bunch of fish sandwiches from Long John Silvers and punches the shit out of 'em. That show is funnier than I thought.

And this morning was the first time I felt like myself since the drugging. But I'm quite worried about taking any new drug now. My system is more sensitive than it was a few years ago, and can't handle that much these days. I'm only 27, and I plan on disappointing people well into my 70's. But it seems that the older you get, the more medicine you have to take. Which is a problem. I'd like to think that I'm strong enough to go without meds, but as winter shows me again and again, I'm not that strong. I need a little help sometimes.

So what the fuck am I supposed to do, just deal with the horrible side effects? That's bullshit.
Seek a shaman? I don't trust shamans.
Why do I always project a negative future for myself? God, I need pills.




Also, a word of advice to the general public: Don't fuck around with Remeron (Mirtazapine). On the real.

Guilt Trippin'

Holy shit! I got a burnt by a shame thrower yesterday. Bad.

I was planning on visiting my friend Kellie in Grand Rapids yesterday.

(Lee and Kellie, lookin' all grown up, and slightly deranged)


I canceled via email in the wee morning hours, like a yellow bellied scoundrel. My reasoning was simple: (Arctic cold snap + snow+ icy roads) = difficult travels. I knew it was a pussy excuse, but it seemed rational at the time.

I must've poked a dog in the eye on this one.

When I woke up, I was feeling much better than the night before. Until I opened an email from Kellie. Now, Kellie is neither a Jew nor a mother, but I'll be damned if she didn't secretly train at a Jewish Mother academy. Oy! She pushed the guilt button hard enough to transport me into another dimension. A dimension filled to capacity with chili mac.



Usually, getting me to change my mind is like trying to push a wet rope up a hill. But when a friend says that they're disappointed in me, bought stomach friendly food for me, got hockey tickets (!) for me, stresses how important it is to spend time with the people you care about, and hopelessly sighs via email? Well, this man has a shame limit. And if the shame is valid, I change my tune and rectify my wrong.

So I'm off to visit Kellie today, like I should have done yesterday. I got called out, and now I'm making it right.

And to those who would try to exploit my shame bone, now that the secret is out, you should know something. Guilt trippin' only works on me once a year, per person, and that person has to be a good friend. A person I have farted loudly in front of...see you soon, Kellie!

Getting Pissy About Diarrhea

True story time! Also, the second Nest of Grump entry.

Please note that this is a post about my guts. I have written a letter to my stomach. Don't enjoy belly aching? Well, you're never gonna get anywhere with that attitude. And if you're reading this while taking a poo, I love you unconditionally.

(via Fart Party. Love ya, girl)


First, some recent history...

I have stomach issues. Straight up. I had an endoscope put down my esophagus in July. In fact, that experience was the catalyst for this blog. The GI doctor that performed the procedure didn't find anything physically wrong with me, therefore limiting any effective treatment. Official diagnosis, dyspepsia. Essentially, I have IBS of the upper intestines. He put me on some muscle relaxants that supposedly target the intestines, but the results have been mixed at best.

I've also been told (and believe) that 80% of my stomach problems are caused by my mind and the anxieties that dwell within it. Nerves in the gut have the highest amount of serotonin in the body. Serotonin is a neurotransmitter that regulates mood. I'm a moody fucker. Correlation? You bet your cthulhu.

In conclusion, I have the capacity to cause my own physical suffering. Neat!


Onto my letter...


Dear My Stomach,
I know we haven't really talked in a while, but I feel that some things need to be addressed. About us. Please bear with me and take what I say into consideration. You'll always be a part of me, that's a given. But, tell me, how did it ever come to this?

We used to be so close. Remember back in high school, when I fed you grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and Mongolian Beef for dinner, with a couple Twix bars in between? Yeah, you remember. You broke down all that stuff with the grace of a figure skater. Those were some good times. We had a great love for each other back then. An excess of love, actually. I was fat. Remember?

(2002)

But you were industrious and I was happy back then. Even when I was eating entire pizzas, 4 times a week, you never hassled me. We were in love with amounts and flavors. Chinese buffets and microwaveable junk food. Pop Tarts and burritos. Cheddar Sun Chips and peanut butter. Crab Rangoon! Those were the days.



Sure, I felt bad about my body. Buying larger pants and trying to conceal man-boobs took a toll on my self-esteem. Forever. But you never betrayed me with pain or digestive difficulty. You did your job and I did mine.

Then, about six years ago, you started to rebel against my cavalier eating habits. You stopped breaking down dairy. Pizza, once a source of delight, became an agent of distress. Horrible cramps and diarrhea occurred. I had to sacrifice all lactose. I felt greatly restricted at first. But with a little time and some perspective, I got over it. After all, everything else was still fair game. We were still pals. There was no use lamenting the things I could not change. Tacos without cheese are still delicious. And without cheese in my diet, I was able to drop a few pounds. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. I went from 255 to 180. Not bad.

(2005)

But the hostility didn't stop there. It grew. Tacos soon brought with them a nauseous wrath. Butter made my belly bubble. Eggs, spicy foods, green peppers, pie. All became forbidden after incurring hefty penalties. And the list of verboten vittles continued to swell.

What exactly were you trying to prove? I mean, what the fuck?!

And lately, you've gotten mean. For the past three years, you have made my life a living hell, not to mention severely limiting my food options. I have discovered that you will not tolerate anything with fats or oils in them. There's not a fried thing I can eat without indigestion, nausea, bloating, and heartburn. Nuts are out. Guacamole? Nope. Chocolate? Not unless I want some Chernobyl farts. No more steak, either. Peanut butter cookies, gone.

You tyrant!

The things I can eat without problems? Cereal, oatmeal, toast, rice, chicken, turkey, dry crackers, pasta, soy milk, and other bland edibles. Woo-fucking-hoo.




If you disapprove of anything I give to you, anything that even slightly glistens, you make the next 6 or 7 hours of my life unbearable. All I can do is drink water and ride it out while watching TV. I can't go out. I can't write or be funny. All my efforts are put into recovering from these erratic bouts of lousiness. Do you realize that my quality of life, our quality of life, suffers from your never ending wickedness? Something has to change. And soon.

I know that I may have overworked you in the past, but those days are long over. There's no need for revenge, partner. I cut a lot of bad shit out of my diet for you. We've hit a rough patch, sure, but without your appetite suppression tactics, I wouldn't own the lean body that I sport today. I'm grateful to you for that.

Sex-machine. Minus the sex.



But, this can't go on forever. It just can't. The future I desire doesn't include agonizing nights curled up in a ball, clutching my stomach. I'm at the end of my rope. If you stop this war right now, all will be forgiven. I want a truce. I want for us to be buddies again. I'm reaching out to you. Please take my hand.

All My Love,
Kid Douche

Jim Cramer's Woe Scope

Jim "Mad Money" Cramer, financial expert, was on Conan the other day. Here's his solution to the housing crisis...



"FDR was a pig killer?!"
"Yes he was!"

I've found my calling. I am sending multiple applications and resumes to Jim Cramer with the intent of joining his wandering torch squad. My name will undoubtedly be added to a government blacklist just for applying, but fuck it. Sometimes you have to gamble when your dream hangs in the balance. And if I'm not accepted, I'll freelance. Emphasis on the free.

You don't even know how many times I've thought about setting Tampa Bay on fire from a helicopter. My favorite movie character is the flame thrower wielding Fireball from The Running Man. Jim Brown's best role.



Side story, true story... During our freshman year of college, me and Sugaragus broke into our friend Ben Brockman's dorm room via the window. He was out with his girlfriend for the night. We watched The Running Man on his TV and stole 4 beers out of his mini-fridge (the beer was Natural Light, is that still considered stealing?). After the movie was over, we left through his front door, all casual. I never told him about it, and he never mentioned the missing beers. The funny thing is that I had a TV and some beer in my dorm anyway. We just thought it would be funny, and it was. Sorry, Ben.




Back to my torch brigade ambitions...

Hell, I don't even need to get paid, just the health benefits, thank you. Smoke inhalation is a bitch, and skin grafts don't grow on trees.



My only concern is that when the ashes settle in the burn zone, and I'm sent back home, maybe I won't be the same guy. Like a returning war vet, I'd be itching for more action, something only my inferno brothers would understand.

I'd get real quiet when birthday candles were lit. I'd stop conversations mid sentence and say, "It smells like kerosene in here. Do you smell kerosene?" I'd fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, go missing for days, and come back with dirt and blood caked upon my clothes. When my fiancé asks me where I've been, I'd respond in a low, even tone, "I've been at the library."




Seriously though, I remember when my friends discovered Mad Money during the winter of 2006. Monty, Kellie, Lee, Erik, Lindsay, (regrettably) Steev, and I used to gather round the TV with various intoxicants and watch Jim Cramer do his maniacal thing. He was throwing chairs and had a sound effect button for each emotion he felt. All 20 of them. It was inspiring to see such passion wildly directed at the stock market. And hilarious. But a 5 day a week show loses its novelty pretty fast, and about 3 weeks in, our gang broke up with Mad Money. Mr. Cramer was devastated.

Getting back to the people I mentioned above. That 1 year period was the most fun I've ever had in my life, and it was over too soon (I know, I'm cornballin' out right now). And it will never be the same because time pulls people apart. Couples break up, alliances fade, friends move away. I have fond memories of that era, but the fact that they are just memories is a bummer. For the past 3 years, I've been chasing the high of being with all my friends at once. That probably explains a lot.

But, I went to a pot luck dinner tonight and it was great. I felt sort of like I did back then. This is very encouraging. I hope the good vibes continue.

Fantastic Voyage to Bummer Town

True/personal story and depressed misanthropic rant time! This type of post shall hereby be called Tales From the Nest of Grump, or just The Nest of Grump. I haven't decided yet.

I'm gonna try to write what I'm feeling as I feel it because I'm losing it fast. I'm a moody fucker and I never know when I might lose my nerve and let my thoughts fade into the night unreported. But I'm in a peculiar way right now, and I sense that I really need to write what's inside my head, however fleeting the sentiment is.

I saw AA Bondy tonight. Just him, his guitar, and his harmonica. It was one of the most intimate and memorable performances I've ever witnessed. He just poured his heart out and was completely humble and gracious. In my opinion, talent and modesty are the best traits one can possess. Here he is, doing his thing backstage in Nashville, again.

Obama, Chicago, Street Dancing, and Grant Park

True story time!

I'm burning the midnight oil to churn out this important blog post... Actually, I'm just awake and this post has no significance whatsoever. Here's the scoop...

I've been pretty edgy the past few days because I wanted the election to be over with and for Obama to be crowned already. I texted people jokes about voting for butterscotch and tried to appear stable, but inside my stomach was a knot that would surely kill me if this fucking election dragged on any longer.

That was until around 9pm Chicago time, when I checked the election results and saw that Obama was winning, and Grant Park was going nuts. So I put on my press hat, took along my shitty camera, and went to join the ruckus. Who knows? Maybe I would end up participating in some historical history time. And possibly host an Obama victory orgy (No dice).

Got on the L to the Washington stop, and was quickly absorbed by a dozen or so jubilant black youths chanting "Obama!" and "Yes we can!". It was truly a great scene and I had a smile on my face the whole time. Here's a sampling of our trek from the L station to Grant Park.

I was getting high fives and woo!'s from across the street. There was a tremendous sense of excitement and anticipation. We march on.


Stop...dance...march on

My favorite!


Along the way, I saw 50 people camped out on the stairs of the Art Institute. This guy was among them, and from the look in his eye, I could tell that he was their leader. And yes, that's a fucking pizza box!

I had to take 3 photos of this guy because my flash was all fucked. He stood there grinning in the same spot for a good 45 seconds. I also noted the distinct aroma of marijuana wafting around.

There were hucksters at every corner, selling t-shirts and hats. Some guy was selling cardboard Obama stand ups. There was also a guy selling Obama slide whistles. I'm not kidding!

What's going on with the lady in the lower right corner? Is that a smile or is there a scorpion in her blouse?


There was a little pot party going on in a garden along Michigan Avenue. Dudes with dreads were waving a big black flag around. I have no idea what it means or represents. Are they stoned pirates, white skinned Black Panthers, or anarchists who smoke drugs? I couldn't tell and didn't get a picture of them. Whoever they are, I probably don't cotton to their nihilistic bike messenger ideology, and I hope an Obama victory doesn't embolden them. We must end the scourge of honkey dreads.

This guy came up to me and said, "Take my picture, man!" So I said, "Okee-dokee." He was overjoyed.



I turned into the park, only to spot theses two exhibitionists who were more than happy to pose for a picture.

Maybe my memory is fuzzy, but was Abraham Lincoln a squat faced, husky drifter with two black eyes? I forget. The other one has the right idea, though. She's purdy. Too purdy. She's hiding something.


When I finally got to Grant Park, I found it to be fenced off, forcing me to watch the Jumbotron with thousands of others who couldn't get in. This was actually pretty boring, and anti-climactic. There were 40 minutes of wandering before Obama gave his speech. People were standing on porta-potties, climbing trees, and even sitting on top of gazebos to try to catch a glimpse of the action inside Grant Park. A LOT of people were smoking dope and talking on their cell phones. But that speech was cool. Everyone got real quiet when he was talking, and roared when he said something uplifting or whatever. I wish I could have been inside the fence, but my journey was awesome anyway.

On the way back to the L, hordes of people filled the streets of downtown Chicago. You couldn't move, but the atmosphere was still very charged. People started getting tired, and then some cars rolled by honking their horns and everybody started getting psyched again. High fives all around, and more Obama chants.



I'm glad I went, and I'm glad Obama won. Relieved might be the more appropriate word, actually. I'm optimistic, sure, but not 6 hours after the election is officially over, I'm just happy to have it all wrapped up. Now I can focus on my other worries. Like finding the right table cloth for my wedding. And draping it over my wife's cage so she stops squawking.

Death in the Family

REAL LIFE, I'm not making any of this up. Just so you know. I'd be a complete asshole if I was lying...


My Zayde (that's what Jews call their grandpa, pronounced zay-dee) died last night and these are my raw thoughts. I'm also not going to be able to post again until Wednesday or Thursday, because I have to fly to Toronto for the funeral and won't be back till Wednesday. So deal with it, I got other shit on my mind.

This is my Zayde holding me when I was a wee piss-ant, with my Bubbie (that's what Jews call their grandma, are you taking notes?) on the right. I love them like you wouldn't believe.




So, I have trouble sleeping and often turn my phone off before going to bed, because my phone is loud and I'd rather sleep than talk to anybody who woke me up. When I got up this afternoon, at around 3pm, I checked my phone and saw that I had 8 voice mails. This is unusual, as I'm not that popular. I immediately knew what this meant. I knew that my Zayde had finally passed.

Backstory:

My Zayde is a holocaust survivor from Poland. He was in Auschwitz, with the numbers tattooed on his arm and everything. He had a massive stroke about 9 years ago and lost his ability to speak. Over the years, his physical condition grew worse, and since 2002, he has been bed-ridden and out of it. He had a brief "Awakening" a couple years ago after taking an experimental drug, but just like in the movie, it didn't last very long. For the past six months, my mom has been flying to Toronto a lot, as he was in serious decline. She always came back from her visits asking me if I had a suit to wear for the funeral. So, I knew this was coming.

The thing is, I've been ready for his death for some time, now. I've made peace with it and I'm ashamed to say it, but he essentially died a long time ago in my mind. I'll always have the memories of his generosity and old-world Jew love, but that man has been put to rest for 6 or 7 years now. I often blocked out the dim-eyed specter of my Zayde from my thoughts, focusing on the years in which he was able to give me heartfelt love (and whiskey, he was always letting me sneak sips from his glass, even when I was 8!).

Back to the details today...

So I listened to all the voice mails, from my mom, my dad, and my sister. Each one increasingly more desperate and angry at my unavailability. I feel like shit for making them worry at a time when everything is sadness mixed with go-go-go. And that's what's weird about the whole thing. We've known this day would be coming for years, and yet when it finally arrived, a panic set in. Like we hadn't been prepared.

The funeral is tomorrow at 1pm, and I was scheduled to fly into Toronto at 6:30pm today. There was no way I could make that flight, so I changed it to 6:30am (AM!) tomorrow morning. Now I have to go to my parent's house in the suburbs to get my passport, pack a suitcase, get to the airport at 5am, arrive in Toronto at 9:30am, get dressed for his funeral, attend his funeral, sit shiva, and probably take some flak about my long hair and beard from some people I hardly know.

That's the other thing. After learning about my Zayde dying, I thought I should cut my hair to look more respectable for relatives. This proved to be impossible, because it was 3:30pm on a Sunday, and every hair cutting place was closed. I meant to get it cut this week anyway, for my latest attempts at obtaining employment. Figures.

I've been letting my hair grow for 6 months, and I'd rather have it be a non-issue, instead of getting contemptible looks from the Jewish Cabal. But I'll probably get a pass because, after all, it was my Zayde that died. Maybe. There are still tons of rich assholes I haven't even met that will shoot me dirty looks. I wonder if I could get away with going off on one of them, as a warning to the others not to fuck with me, like in prison... Nah, I'm over thinking it. I'm just insecure around people that are more successful than me, is all. Besides, I may have to deal with these people later on, and I don't want to burn bridges, Larry David-style.

And that's going to be my reality for the next few days. Fan-fucking-tastic!


This is my favorite picture of my Bubbie and Zayde. Zayde is lookin' straight gangsta in a grocery store. You should see some pictures of him in sunglasses. Jewish Mafia, anyone?

Root of All Evil

Take 1: My face is more numb than my dick after a fuckfest.

Take 2: My face is more numb than the emotional core of a father whose only daughter drowned in quicksand on her wedding night.


Take 3: My face is more numb than a guy who had 3 billion cc's of Novocaine shot into his face.


My root canal procedure went off without a hitch, and I am relieved. I had no idea how a root canal was done before today, but now I know way too much about it. And I owe it all to my unflappable endodontist. I'd like to give a shout out to Dr. Woolman for doing such a great job. Buk Buk Buk!!! Homeboy was so professional and collected, he reminded me of Mr. Wolf from Pulp Fiction.

Harvey Keitel as Señor Lobo



And dude talked about as fast and constantly as Mr. Wolf, too. I'm not exaggerating when I say that he didn't stop talking throughout the whole 40 minute procedure. He was telling me what I could and couldn't do for the next few days, what tools he was using, what kind of crap he was shooting into my tooth hole, potential hazards of chewing with the tooth, how to gamble with dreidels (always bet on Gimel), how he pushed his wife down the stairs and how it'll be our little secret, and some other things of which I don't remember.

So the nerve tissue in my front tooth is completely gutted, and I'm cool with it. At least I don't feel like I'm giving birth through my gums anymore. I got the nerve fetus aborted during the second trimester, which is the best of the 7 trimesters. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise.


Now I'm going to take a nap and dream of my childhood friend, Randy...

My Mustache is Numb

True Story Time!

What a fucking day! I get up early at around 10(early for me, and for the United Unemployed Local 72), so I can drink coffee, shit, shower, and watch the second half of Ronin before having my mouth explored and drilled for blood diamonds.

This scene with Michael Lonsdale weaving a tale about lost samurai warriors while painting miniature ronin is nearly perfect, and in an action-oriented film, no less.


So it starts to rain and I'm late for the dentist. This is nothing new, as I'll probably be late for my own funeral. You can all relate, I'm sure. Being on time is weird to me. I'm a free spirit, man, so don't harsh my vibes, capeesh?



So back at the dentist. X-rays show cavities in my front teeth. No shit doc, thats why they hurt, so fix them shits. I get numbed up and he starts drilling, and as soon as the drill hits the tooth a shooting pain grabs hold and I yelp and squirm. Not a good sign. More Novocaine is injected into the roof of mein mouth, making my face numb, from the front teeth to the inside of my nose.

An hour has passed. Dr. Dentist starts drilling again. Again the shooting pain rapes my face with awe inspiring agony. Dentist looks around awkwardly and leaves. He comes back 5 minutes later and tells me that I need a root canal. MOTHERFUCKING COCKSHIT PISSLIPS!!!


I got referred to a root canal specialist, and I'm getting it done at 10:15am tomorrow (today).

The drive back to the city was not pleasant. My face was numb without purpose. My lips were plumped to L.A. housewife proportions. I felt like a lonely knight without a dragon to slay. I felt like my metaphors didn't fit my situation.

And yet...the day was not over. I felt a glimmer of hope that the day wasn't in tatters. It was only 4pm, so I went to a diner with my friend Sierra, and tried to approximate a chewing motion on a turkey club. Not completely unsuccessful, but there was bread everywhere.


From there, we hung out at her place. An hour passed and the sky darkened unnaturally. I got a call from my mom telling me to stay inside because a huge storm was rolling through. She was right. It was the gnarliest lighting storm in years, with full-blown bolts touching down everywhere.


Sierra took some eerie pictures, and if the camera had night vision, it would look like CNN footage from Iraq or any other city where hell hath taken over the night sky. Windy, apocalyptic storm shaking the ground was way cool. Probably not so cool for the homeless, but I'm not them, so who cares? (I kid, I kid...maybe)

Haw Haw!

(via English Russia)

After the worst of the storms passed, Sierra and I thought it would be a capital idea to prank call people we know using the computer text speech function on her computer. We used each other's phones so people wouldn't recognize who was calling. Remember doing shit like that when you were a kid? Well, it's just as fun now as it was back then. I gotta remember to do shit like that more often.

And that was my day. Half good, and half bad.


Now if you don't mind, I have a root canal in the morning and need some shuteye.