Thursday, May 20, 2010

My 1000th twitter post

I know I'm such a faggot for talking about twitter all the time. I never fucked with it in college because I was too busy being awesome, but now that I spend roughly 6 months a year wasting away in an office or on my way to it, it's the one thing that keeps me sane. That along with 4square, which is basicaly a game that me and my postgrad friends play to see who can drink the most during the week. Whatever social media is what it is. If you think its really gay you probably have better things to do so I solute you...that or you are a raging douche and you are afraid you will have an embarassingly low ammount of followers.

So the other day I was coming upon my 1000th tweet. I realized that this was a pathetic achievement but I should commemorate it in someway. I scoured the web for ideas. Some people wrote a self-depricating poem about how much time they have wasted, others made a statement of vanity, while some just simply wrote "1000."

I went another route, I though of how much I had said in those 140 character messages and what it could have been had I connected some non linear thoughts. It's only going to be a matter of time before some low concept book comes out...1000 tweets, a novel told 140 characters at a time. Sure shit my dad says is getting a tv show. But what if a famous author released his next novel exclusively through twitter. 140 characters at a tweet a day. I promise you this is gong to happen.

But anyway, who gives a fuck, I wrote 35000 words and all I got out of it was a few laughs from others and made a few of my friends from Indianapolis realize how pathetic their broad ripple social scene is. But I guess the point of this post is...I'm not sorry, I'll keep tweeting just like you post on Lost message boards...and maybe with my next 1000 tweets I'll do somthing more important than announce to 183 people what bar I'm visiting and how drunk I am.

Friday, May 14, 2010


My blogging at work privileges have been stripped of me thanks to the faggoty new firewall at my work. So while other in my position would probably stop constantly surfing the web and reading NSFW blogs all day about the stupid bullshit that I actually care about (mainly movies and cats) and do some real work...uh fuck that.

I go to work for 3 reasons: Stare at my co-worker Jenna's tits, use the qtips in the bathroom (after googling porn on my blackberry during a 30 minute shit) and obtain an income as a front for my crystal meth dealing ring. How do you think that I afford this lavish lifestyle? Base plus commish? I sell smack to 12 year olds at Vernon Hills Middle School...that and my parents pay off my credit card. Go fuck yourself, you're just jealous, just like I'm jealous of people with cool jobs, private jets and female roommates that felatiate them daily. Basically I hate anyone that has a decided advantage over me and I kinda wish it was like comic books where I could defeat them and then obtain their power or their wealth and their stuff and their ya. i.e. Taking out Travolta would give me Kelly Preston, a private plane and all of L Ron Hubbard's secrets...

So why am I laying on the couch at 730 writing a dumb blog about my unfulfilled fantasies while pressing the ignore button on my cellphone on a private number (read: creditor) I should be doing something relevant or at least trying to figure out a way to intoxicate myself so I forget how average my life really is...oh, hm...doorbell, cops, census people? Oh it's my crystal meth, gotta go!

Monday, May 3, 2010


I'm not really sure what remission means...I know if you have cancer remission is a good thing. However I am going to portray it in a completely different light.

Remission re·mis·sion noun- a temporary or permanent decrease or subsidence of manifestations of a disease.

A decrease of manifestations of a disease, that sounds like a particularly good thing. You had a problem and now it is at least temporarily gone. What if you problem is that you are a full blown alcoholic Thursday-Saturday. I would argue that during those 72 or so odd hours you are at the height of your disease; poisoning your body to the extent of slurred speech, loss of body functions and the systematic shutdown of many of your bodies core proccesses. However, during these intense periods of "disease" I feel like I could fight a Polar Bear in heat and/or beat Bobby Fischer in chess. I'm a fucking rockstar. Now just becaus my liquid confidence dictates that when embibed I can bring any karaoke crowd to its knees and pick-up any girl at any bar; this is not the issue at hand. When I am tanked I physically feel great, have more energy than an ADD 6 yr old and can party until 5 in the morning.

Then I wake up Sunday morning in a pile of my own urine/blood/vomit laying on a broken mirror in my closet with a tattoo that reads "I <3 black cock" on my forehead and I enter a state of remission. The toxins, or af I have loosely based my metaphor, the "disease" is slowly leaving my body and I fucking...die.

No cold shower, water, greasy food, sleep, blow job, Advil, uppers, downers, crying, Hugh Grant movies, Steak N Shake Milkshakes, or even a nice back rub from my roommate can do anything about it. It is a feeling so miserable that I cannot put it into words, I can only tell you to go drink a fifth of tequilla, eat 80 mg of Addy, do this 4 nights in a row and then tell me how you feel on the fifth.

Some call it withdrawl, some call it a hangover, some don't even realize they have a broken arm until days later because of the throbbing in their temples is so severe. Light, sound become unwelcome and the only thing that brings temporary relief is running your head under cold water or the knowledge that perhaps vomitting will somehow improve your current state. It won't...

But sometimes for the true soldiers of fortune out there, there is a cure. Drag yourself to the kitchen, or your local corner pub and try to put down a 32 degree light beer, bloody mary, or will be one of the most difficult things you ever do. The first one will be the hardest, but then 2, 3 and four will become exponentially slowly transform from "I'm never drinking again" to "I'm kind of thinking I should go to Stanley's tonight." And as you let the disease re-enter your body and that you get your confident swashbuckling swagger back, you will be sure of one thing...remission fucking sucks.