Because I Suck at Email

MORE DISPATCHES FROM THE NEST OF GRUMP...


I suck at email. I can never get the tone right and I obsess over words and syntax. But obsession yields no results, and it still comes out all wrong. It's common for people who receive an email from me to misread a sarcastic sentence, or mistake a compliment for condescension.





I also suck at text messaging, although it's much more forgiving because of the accepted use of sentence fragments. But I still can't type anything over a sentence without questioning what I'm trying to say and how it will be perceived.

Perhaps it's the formality I impose upon myself. I never know if I should start with a "dear so and so", or with a quick name-check like -
"Hey Herbert,
Just lettin' you know that I'm sittin' in a lawn chair in front of your house right now, holding a really thick carrot. See ya!"





I'm just bad at the whole thing. I come off as either uncaring, creepy, or overenthusiastic. I've tried my hand at internet dating, too, and oh boy what an abortion! Apparently I have no business making kisses on a lady. Internet dating makes me feel like I'm trapped in a dusty psychic crypt, while weird reclusive women with impossible standards measure and judge me from the other side of a two-way mirror.





I've only had one email buddy in my life. She was a friend who moved away from Chicago, so the tone and subject matter of our natural conversation was already established. And we mostly complained to each other about our lives, which wasn't that much different from what we normally talked about. Perhaps you've noticed that I'm more comfortable writing about things that bother me. It's easy, cataloging petty annoyances, and something I'm good at.





Maybe I should preface all my emails with this header: "The email you're about to read is inconsistent and nervous in nature. Please forgive me."-- Yeah, nobody is gonna delete that on principle.

I just need to face the facts. My self-doubt is noticeable when I write and unavoidable when I talk. It'll probably be that way forever. Shalom.

Eating Sad Cookies

Another dispatch from the front lines of the NEST OF GRUMP...




Ah, nothing like some depression to kick start the fall. Nothing like waking up to screaming shitheaded children, playing in the streets like dogs. Nothing like the hatred for my neighbors, even though they’re just living their lives, albeit in the most annoying way possible. And the dumpster on the street for construction junk, the one that’s right outside my front door, yeah, having the whole neighborhood heap old furniture and hamburger wrappers upon it to the point of overflowing is fantastic. Smells nice. God, I hate everyone and everything. And I hate that I hate.





Waking up guilty is an awesome feeling, too. Not being able to fall asleep until 7am and waking up at 3pm with most of the day gone makes my heart swell. Not that I had anything important to do anyway. Maybe I’m pissed because all these people are running around like they’re happy and I don’t feel like that at all. Yes, I know that a lot of the people I see are far from happy, but I just can't help projecting my uneasiness around like birdshot.

And yuppies with no visible flaws anger the shit out of my ass. I know they’re just as insecure as I am, but it would be nice if they could at least show some outward manifestations of it. Gimme some sad eyes, slight limps, dry hair, stained shirts, and scars. It makes me feel better.





There are only a few times a month when I feel like everything is alright. When my body, mind, and surroundings are aligned and in order. But it’s short-lived, maybe a couple hours long. These moments include meeting someone new that isn’t full of shit, reading or watching something that causes genuine laughter, hanging out with a few friends outdoors, and taking a refreshing dump on a lazy afternoon. These are my only joys.





It’s amazing that I’m friends with anyone, actually. I’m a privileged moody prick filled with potential that I never act upon. Oh look, over there, it’s a glimpse of the person I could be if I tried harder. He looks happy! That was a fun little exercise! Oh dear, look at the time… I’m due back at the gloomy van of hogshit at 8. You see, I’m taking a three month roadtrip of indecision and guilt-induced diarrhea. It's gonna be more fun than watching a tampon commercial!

Ahh shit. I’m just depressed and bored and don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I don’t want to drink or take drugs. I don’t want to watch a movie or TV. I don’t want to take a walk and get more pissed at the people I see. I’d like to move away deep in the woods, but I’d get sick of that, too. Sometimes being alone is nice, and other times it gets to me and I pace around my apartment like a caged animal.





Depression. It’s a vague term, but it applies to whatever I’m feeling right now. I’ll lay it out in simple terms. I harbor deep hatred for my fellow man. I can’t stop thinking negatively. I don’t want to do anything. All choices are rigged. All paths lead to nothing. Where the fuck do I release this darkness? Inside a cop’s mouth? Honestly, I don’t know what I need or what I want. And it frustrates the hell out of me.

Misery = Human Interaction

Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you another installment straight from The Nest Of Grump.





A couple weeks ago, I was tapped to find footage for a charity event video thing. It's to help fund an organization that trains inner city kids to do computer repair work. A noble cause. The themes for the video I'm helping with are positivity and communal connection, two things I spend zero time thinking about. I mostly think about the inevitability of an all-out spider war. I'm out of my league with this life-affirming crap. I actually typed "cheesy bullshit" into the search box of Youtube.

Also, as an artist/contributor for this charity, I've been invited to meetings about the event. Whoop whoop!





This is where I struggle. I don't talk to people I don't already know for any length of time, ever. And I especially don't talk to people who want my professional opinion about anything. I'm a simple cave troll. Don't touch me.

When I absolutely have to interact with people, like the ones involved with this charity project, I get really weirded out. The sudden awareness of these alien perspectives thrust upon my excitable brain is almost too much.

Example: There is a party planner/caterer for the charity event, a Jewish one. She's in her 50's, stands about 5 feet tall, and is dressed in upper middle class business-wear (a jazzy pantsuit). While soliciting opinions on what food should be served, she cheerily asked, "How about empanadas? We could do a taco!" And the others nodded and one person said, "Oooh! Now I'm hungry." And everybody laughed. I smiled politely. It was like a Tim and Eric sketch.

And this party/wedding planning suburban Jew-mom was also trying to set her son up with the female video producers. And when I told her where I grew up, she goes, "Oh! Do you know Jordan Goldberg?" Oy vey. Why do Jewish moms think that because I'm Jewish, I know every other Jew in the county? They do it all the time. God, I wanna bite their legs off.





And the producer of the event sends me these texts. Maybe it's me, but whenever I get text messages like "Thanks!" or "Yay!" or "See U soon!", it seems insincere and creepy. The exclamation point is a very delicate mechanism, and used excessively, it makes you sound completely bonkers. OKAY!?!?!

Ya see how ordinary shit gets under my skin really easily? I'm so used to doing my own thing that I forget how people actually behave and communicate. And I'm horrified by what they spew from their evil little face holes.

My life consists of watching movies, building sweat pant forts, and catching catfish. I quit playing honky nice-nice a long time ago.

Hopefully, with the help of a Kapsiki crab sorcerer and a butt load of Wendy's coupons, I'll pull through this dark time of honorable productivity and verbal expression.

8 Things I Hate

Note: I wrote most of this while recovering from the stomach flu. I lost 8 pounds and envied the dead. Thankfully, I feel way better now, but here's last week's positively frothing nest of grump...





1.Opera
I enjoy classical music. I can tolerate fat people. I like vocal harmonies and choirs singing in unison. But. I. Absolutely. Hate. Opera. It's so pretentious. And it all sounds the same. Some porky bitch has lungs the size of garbage bags and howls like a dinosaur. It doesn't delight my senses or lift my withered soul. It's just boring. I'd rather kick pretty flowers. At least I'd feel something.


2.Mustard
The first time I saw someone oozing some neon yellow sauce onto a bologna sandwich, I shuddered. It looks disgusting. The first time I tasted it, on a hot dog, I nearly threw up. It tastes disgusting. The sound of mustard being squeezed out the little jimmy hole of a yellow squeeze bottle? Melts my ears. It sounds disgusting. Mustard is yellow terrorism. Case closed.





3.Subculture aficionados
I actually don't have any beef with people who are legitimately into something, be it cars or comics or beef. My problem is with people who won't give it a rest. Enough about your bike, your workout regimen, your veganism, your cat, your computer, your garden, and your commitment to Christ. See my eyes wandering around the room? I'm looking for a place to cry.

I consider myself to be a pretty big hockey fan, but I'll only talk about it when prompted. Why? Because I believe in America.



4.Having a body
Oy, my stomach! Sausage coils rumble through mein jungle. Dark rivers of hate, dissolving all canoes. I got Satan in my guts. He's got a cabin down there. And he's doing push ups on the roof.

See the stomach flu post. And this. And this.



5.Ceilings
Thanks for blocking my view of the heavens, asshole.



6.Flat screen TV filled bars
There's a sports bar a couple blocks away from me called Boundary. The number of flat screen TV's lining the walls is appalling. Being anywhere near that place is brutal. But hey, dicks gotta eat and drink someplace, don't they? Gotta watch the game, drink $6 beers, laugh at Bud Light commercials, hate fags, eat greasy food, groom the goatee, reek of Axe, rock a bluetooth ear piece, and brag about how awesome your weekend was.

I can drink and watch TV at home. I go to bars to fail at girls.



7.January
January kicks my ass regularly. It comes along in the middle of a good for nothing wintertime filled with depression and freeze. Next year, I'm going somewhere warm for the entire month of January. I'll hit up Florida and California, maybe Texas. I'm leaving January like a bag of shit on my rabbi's doorstep. Shalom!



8.Slavery
I'm going out on a limb here, but I think slavery is wrong.






I know. I know.

I Hate My Body: Stomach Flu

Hola from the nest of grump!


(via Rafa Toro)



I have the stomach flu. My body temperature is 100.5 degrees. My muscles ache. I'm all diarrhea and nausea, but no vomiting, although there have been a couple close calls which involved me leaning over the bathtub, waiting for the custard to spurt. And gas. My entire torso is bloated with malevolent air.

All I can think about, besides wanting to sleep through this whole ordeal, is that I need to be careful about what I eat, drink, and watch.

Hear me out on this...





In 2002, I had a two week stomach episode and ate nothing but Club crackers during that time. I can no longer eat Club crackers because of the negative connotation they hold in my sensory bank. Which isn't so bad. There are other crackers in the world. Like my Uncle Barry, for instance. But it sets a very dangerous precedent for future sicknesses.

I gotta be wary. I don't want to accidentally eliminate any favorite food and drinks from my diet forever. And I don't want a likable movie or TV show to get ruined with poisonous flu memories.

Example: When Masters of the Universe came out in the theaters, my parents took me and a friend to go see it. I was 5 at the time. Little Kid Douche (not talkin' bout my penis) gave it 4 stars. On the ride home, my friend power puked inside my dad's Camaro (yup). A few years ago, the movie was on TBS. I wanted to see it again, but I had to change the channel. All I could think about was my dad retching while he scrubbed the soiled car seats. He sold it a month later. And my friend blamed popcorn for the barf. Never ate popcorn again.

You see what I'm getting at? I need to rest and watch TV to take my mind off my ill health, but the potential for a tragic association stalks my thoughts. Therefore, I can't see new movies, only old ones. And TV shows I've watched a billion times.

I'm also going to be carefully consuming off brand versions of the food and drinks I like, just in case. Nothing from my regular diet. I will ingest Powerade, Canfield ginger ale, Eden soy milk, and Carr's water crackers. With these items, I hope to nurse myself back to health.




My body is a prison, and until I get better, I'm going to watch The Simpsons over and over again. And maybe Robocop.

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

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.