So, I wrote a very angry post yesterday. It’s not there anymore in case you were looking for it. Time always heals, and after a cup of noodles and with time to think, I’m totally fine. I just thought I’d post something that was in the moment. It’s usually something I’d write and never post, but hey – we’ve all been really pissed about stuff before, so I doubt it’s that abnormal. Let’s just say, if you don’t know me and love me – I’m a psychopath, but if you do, then it’s endearing. Let’s just say that.
Can I just say that I would like to see House of Wax just out of curiosity – but I could never justify putting it in my Netflix when it’s guaranteed to be…not a good idea.
Okay, I’m off to procrastinate now.

It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp...

*** I have to preface today’s posting with this: I went to bed hella mad last night, which I never do, only to have my anger carry over into this morning and thus into my work day, which pisses me off even more. Ok, maybe hella mad doesn’t really describe it, I was mad at everybody and their dog (except the roommate because I’ve never been mad at her for longer than two seconds) but I’m in the process of trying to cool off now, so I’ll stick to that. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for the past hour or so contemplating how much calling out, clowning, and bitching, I’m going to do. Because really I’d like to just blast the hell out of several people. Regardless, this is what I came up with. ***

This online blog shit is a delicate science.

I go back and forth all the time with just how much I want to share. The stuff I am most excited about content-wise is always the most honest. It’s just that Yahoo! and Google are off the chain. And the availability of it all is just scary. This is why when I write something about a particular person in my life, I make sure to tell that person that he or she has inspired me to write something (And they get their very own nickname). That way, should they read the site, they’re not surprised.

And I say that, of course, as the owner of the thoughts, that I have poetic license. Most of the shit is accurate, but I censor, omit and/or revitalize tons from some of the stories because they can seem bogged down with negativity or so ridiculous it’s downright impossible. I swear to God I was asked if I'd be interested in being the love interest in the latest Ashlee Simpson video because I’m four inches taller than her. Was this invitation real? Don’t know (but I hope so because that would be the best day of my life!). Would you believe me if I told you so? Maybe. But that’s just too good to be true. Did a real live car salesman ask me on a date? Totally, but that just sounds fake. And I swear on my mother’s cat statues that I met a dancer at Burger King, a real dancer, that looked so amazingly hot in his sweat pants that I just had to say, “I can’t believe you’re real. They really make them like you? You’re so calendar.” I got all the game sometimes. So much game, I forgot my whole food order on the counter because of his disgusting attractiveness. Walked all the way to the car without my food, but on the trip back inside he did ask for my number. I just brushed some dirt off my shoulder if you missed it. Why am I saying all of this?

Well, the Internet is put here for you and me. It’s from the earth. Smoke it. You ain’t got no job, and you don’t have shit to do. (Or you do have a job and you should be entering that data, but you’re steady fucking around on my blog trying to clear that history every five minutes. I know who you are, and to be honest, most of this upkeep is for you. Cubicle World is fucking hard. I know because I’m right there with you and I’m just trying to do my part to make you feel better.) And I must admit that I am a total enabler in this oblivion. I just observe and make mental notes and stand there as pleasant as a peach. Somewhere along the way, through a combination of maturity and fear of being gagged and stuffed in a trunk, I’ve managed to find a filter. I used to be very stank, unnecessarily mean maybe. Being a trooper is just the way sexier choice. Maybe sexy isn’t the right word. Whatever. I’m just saying I always have been an enabler. How is it possible to encourage oblivion? Fuck. I’ve been known to bring a friend who smokes that desperately wants to quit a pack of cigarettes just because they were on sale. I’ll bring you a beer even though I see that your left eye is twitching uncontrollably and there’s spit-up on your neck. No peer pressure. I’m just trying to be nice. I mean, I am up. I must stop this cycle. But again, I digress.

To make sure no one’s feelings get hurt, I have to make this disclaimer. I’m in a very good writing space lately. That sounds gross to say out loud, but I get inspired by the people I meet every day. Inspired enough write some of this shit down because even I can’t believe it. So in this space, I can only write honestly. Now, here’s the disclaimer.

If you’re reading this, and it sounds an awfully lot like you or something you did and your feelings are hurt, that is not the intention and on top of that, this here is make-believe. I’m a fucking crazy person. My opinions are not to be trusted. I put M&Ms and Twizzlers in my popcorn. What? Who? I know right! What do I know? I don’t know shit about shit. I can’t boil eggs for shit. I misplace punctuation marks and quotations all the time. I don’t underline book titles, hyperlink, because I’m too stupid to get the HTML or whatever it’s even called down. And adding to that list of retardo shit, I’m really clumsy. Don’t let me hold that glass of Merlot near you, unless you plan on making that shirt the car wash shirt. See, I don’t know a damn thing. This here? Make-believe. All tomfoolery designed to make me feel better, I think. I don’t even know.

Nobody asked me to return a rental car (fucking Ford Focus – ooh alliteration) after a date. A snobby music guy never said, “Did you ring me up at Macy’s the other day?” when he saw me at a bar. Bitch. I’m a salesman now!? Throw me a bone dude. You see? None of this is really happening. It’s all an illusion, and when you wake up, you will feel ten times lighter.

Now, please wait for me to rock you like a hurricane. I still got some anger brewing over here in my pretend little world and my fingers are literally itching to get it all out of my system. Whether or not that will actually happen is to be determined.

It's Lovely Weather For A What?!? Oh No, I Think Not...

I know I’m not allowed to say this. Hello hate mail. I know it will seem ludicrous and insane to many, many people, but I just can’t help that I have this observation.
I’ve discovered there are two things you cannot discuss period. You can’t say that you don’t like animals. People assume that you’re in the small twisted camp of people who torture little animals for fun and study. No, I’m not that way. Fucking sue me. And it’s not even that I don’t like animals, I’m just not really in to them that much. But I recently discovered you can’t say you’re not that into Christmas. You will be snubbed and thrown to the wolves.
It’s not the holiday itself that drives me up the wall. Christmas is a beautiful time of togetherness and thanks. A time for nostalgia. Childhood memories. You can ask your parents for Tupperware and Uno and Scrabble – things you want very badly but don’t really want to pay for – and you’ll get them. Christmas is a great time. A time for looking forward to the next year, the next birthday (that’s a joke), the horizon of good fortune that awaits you around the corner. Yes, it’s true, my friends. It’s not the holiday and the meaning of the holiday that blow my mind. I’m down with holiday cheer. Jolly good ho ho ho to you to, neighbor.
It’s the decorations. The excess in decorations. The ever-present decorations. Everywhere the decorations. No lantern, lamp post, doorway or stairway is without decoration. Was it always like this? When did every single awning, door, doorknob, doorstop, window pane, window sill, fingernail become adorned with reindeer and ornaments. You know, the first sign of stress is clutter. Or maybe that’s the third or fourth sign, I don’t know. It’s already a stressful time though. I’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to pass it off as my need to control my environment. I have some control issues. I won’t lie. Who doesn’t? But I’m an observant person. Some things I cannot get over. For example, at the end of every Sex and the City episode except the one where Carrie was dancing in her panties to "To Be Real," that fucking song comes on. I hate that song. Will I get over it? I don’t think so. You see, I am having a hard time with the decorations.
It usually starts right after Halloween. The day after Halloween I go to the store and every year, on November 1, before I even see a cornucopia or a turkey or a candied yam, I see a snowman. Or a snowflake. Or a red velvet bow. It’s subtle at first. But a week later, at that same store, there’s a Christmas explosion. Boom! Kapow! It’s Christmastime, y’all. Take all my money today! Yes! I’ve been waiting for this day! Two life-sized Styrofoam reindeer please. I’ve been trying to spend this $200 all day. I really need these. And the decorations are tacky. Let’s just be honest. I don’t want a snowman talking to me every time I push its belly in. What if I wanted it to say something about Kwanzaa or Ramadan instead? Where’s that snowman? First of all, back it up. This is the south. What is snow?
My credit card company starts losing their minds as they rape and pillage the rain forest for paper goods. At Christmastime, they send tons of those checks. Those fake checks that work like real checks making you think you’ve got money to burn. Those checks are the reason why everyone needs a paper shredder. Can you imagine those checks in wrong hands? Have you ever had your identity or your money stolen? I have, and it’s a fucking bitch to fix especially if you bank with Compass. That’s a whole other story. Die Compass Bank. How can you charge someone a fee for not having a certain amount of money? Can’t you see I don’t have that amount therefore rendering your fee of $5 for NOT having that amount the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard? I mean, you’re already charging me money just to come in and talk to a human. I’m one of those customers that is only allowed to use the ATM. But my stripe is demagnetized, I swear. Are you going to charge me to come in here because of one little broken card? Bullshit. Compass Bank, this is an outrage.
I digress.
The decorations are out of control. Why do I feel so bad saying that? Have I been brainwashed for years and years to only speak highly of all things Christmas? Somebody else feels this way. I’ve seen someone driving around in her car that is decorated. To each his own, yeah yeah, I’ve heard it a million times, but shit, am I not allowed to be annoyed? The wearing of Santa hats blows my mind as well. Can I not say that? Loosen up, Greg. Live a little. Have some fun. I am having fun, but I don’t need to put that hat on to do so. I don’t like that color red at all. It’s dyeable prom shoes red. It’s PAAS red. Gross. It reminds me of rosacea for some reason, and I don’t like it. You be you. Put that hat on all day long and up a dog’s ass. I’m cool just standing sans hat next to this huge wreath made of acorns and silver spray paint. Ouch. Probably shouldn’t touch it. Right.
The commercials are moving decorations in the TV. If I see one more Target holiday commercial again, bad things are about to be afoot. And to think I wanted to get down to a Target to buy those two-for-one throws. You see, that shit works on me somehow. And why do the commercials always come on louder than the show? What is that? Oh the weather outside is frightful – in my head all day long. That is not as bad as having that Suga Suga song stuck in your head though. I’ll sing any Christmas carol over that song. Shoot me right between my eyes next time that song comes on. My hands are all bloody from punching on the concrete.
What about when someone repeatedly asks you if you’d like some egg nog? I honestly truly don’t like the taste of egg nog, nor do I like the words egg nog, so I just say “no thanks” politely and hope they move on. No. They never move on. It’s always, “You don’t want egg nog?” I say no, and thanks but no thanks. Then it’s, “Why don’t you want any egg nog?” If I say, “I hate the taste and the sound of the words actually,” then I’m an asshole that’s ruining the party for everyone. I just lie and say I’ve already had two cups full and ooh wee it was the bomb.
I do, however, like to get to Wal-Mart right before it gets all holiday stressful and busy. Preferably in the morning, when everything is still nicely finger-spaced and stacked. They have so much stuff. Cute packaging and great ideas for all to share. The lotions are busting off the shelves, there’s just so many! The little gloves are only $2! I’ll take 5! Foot scrubs, Pringles, nose hair trimmers – all in one place. And at Wal-Mart my shopping cart is never wobbly or broken like it is at every other place I shop with a cart.
Seriously, can't we just bring it down two notches?
Is it socially unacceptable to say anything bad about Christmas? Did I just guarantee my spot in hell for saying the EXCESS of Christmas decorations is the worst? I feel bad about it, but if so, I’m bringing the incense and the Evian. What are you bringing? It’s a potluck down there, you know. I do not mean to offend. I surely don’t. Maybe I have some deep rooted issues. Who knows? Starting today, I will stop thinking about it forever. Decorations? Who?

Blast from the Not So Distant Past... Jesus God!

I have to take just a moment to discuss some ignorance that has occurred in my world today. I'm sitting at the office minding my own as I frequently do and my computer screen starts jumping and my phone starts buzzing (It's makes an obnoxious noise when it's on vibrate.) Lo and behold I've got a text message. Which as many of you know I'm always excited to get. It was from Special K. A little back story on Special K. Met him at Play (A place that I will never return to because everyone has asymmetrical hair cuts and wear girl jeans.), he was really nice, gave him my number, we talked, he came over one night and... This is where I quit telling this story, because it's painful and rude and it irritates me to no end. Needless to say, he and I haven't talked in about a month. So, anyway, back to this text message.
It was all very polite y'know "Hey, what's going? How have you been?" blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I was completely nice to him, told him I was doing great, I was at work, whatever. A few minutes passes and I get a text from him that said "We should get together sometime." Hoping he would get the cold shoulder I was trying to put off (Note: Shit like that does not come across in text messages), sadly that was not the case. I told him that I was seeing somebody now, I was very happy, and I had no desire to try to screw it up. And the response I got, completely blew my mind. I get a text from that little shit that said "So? It's just a hook up." If I knew where he was right now I'd leave the office go push his face through the back of his head. I mean really who does he think he is? Because I'm really the type that is going to screw around on the guy I'm with? I mean, it's like something out of a really trashy adult comic book romance novella.
I'm sorry, but I just don't understand the concept of cheating. Am I the only one who feels this way? If you don't want to be monogamous, say so and move on and get all the boys and be sure to send them each a pendant, a trinket of some sort once you’re done since you’ve got the petty cash. Be a gentleman about the shit if you’re going to be a man whore. If you do want to be monogamous, then shack up and get it cracking. Fix my car. I’ll rub your shoulders. You tell me I smell great. I tell you you’re the shit, and let’s do this. I’m sorry, but when a man cheats on me I'm all "I have to take my babies and bounce" and be like "don’t forget to send that alimony check fool. I’ll be at my mom’s." Even more, I can't understand how there are people who stand by their significant other when they get cheated on. I’m sorry, but I need a moment, like two years and 4 months, to get my bearings. You cheated on me. I worship the very ground you walk on, the air you breathe, and you cheated on me! You know what, I’ll just be at the house thinking, burning your clothes, eating Ambien, conjuring up black magic and I’ll talk to you in a bit honey, okay. Yeah, and don’t forget to eat shit and die on your way out!
Anyway, I got on a tangent there for a minute. Had to get that out of my system. Have a great afternoon folks! Ha Ha Ha!

That's Some Espionage Right There...

No, My momma is not that Korean woman who does your nails!

I've been at a complete loss with this poor mistreated blog as of late. I've had the most severe case of writer's block that I couldn't even think of something at the very least half-assed and witty to say. It's not even that I'm at a loss of things happening in my life (Read: I'm really a loser), it's just that nothing's really been funny enough to share. That was until today.

I'm still really close with a lot of my folks in Birmingham, we e-mail back and forth and sometimes I have to call and clown them on something that I heard that reminded me of their stupid ass. Today, I'm sending this half-assed little e-mails to Eva Mendes-clone and she said that she's got to go see my mother because she might have dyed her hair. To which my response was "Take a picture and send it to me." The thing you have to understand about my mom is that she always picks these off the wall, never occurred naturally in nature, colors to put on her head. She deny this in a comment later, but I swear to you that this heiffer had purple hair for about three weeks. I'm not talking like Barney the dinosaur purple, I'm talking about that dark, almost maroon purple that was real popular on Impala's a few years back. Ig'nant.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, Eva Mendes-clone taking a picture of my momma's head. She said she had to do a sneak attack on her because she'd freak out if she new someone was taking a picture of her recently colored weave. Ha ha ha ha! My momma doesn't really wear a weave, at least I don't think she does. I don't know, I've been gone for two months, she could be wearing stripper pumps and selling Mary Kay for all I know! Anyway, I'm sitting here with this vision of EM-c crawling through the air ducts at her office, getting right over my momma's head, and repelling down a la Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. I had a tourettes moment and just busted out laughing. Now I got folks looking at me all crazy, I need to tell them that I forgot my nerve pills this morning. I think I will, hang on let me throw something and scream really loud.

Oh, speaking of screaming really damn loud, does anyone know anybody that has night terrors? Ok, I'm totally not clowning on anybody that has them because I'm sure that it's not so much fun for you either. Anyway, so I'm talking to Hustle & Flow last night and we were talking about what we were afraid of and all that jazz. Ok, wait, side note, why is it that folks feel the need to talk about the shit they're afraid of? That's not going to make any better, that's not going to keep you from peeing your panties everytime you experience said phobia. So, really, why? Anyway, back to the point. So he tells me that sometimes he gets night terrors, and not thinking I said "I'm just going to let you know that the first time that happens, you will see me come up out of my shit and start crawling up walls." Because I am such the supportive friend. It was only later that I told him that because he was taking steroids (not for body building or sports or anything like that ) that he was going to be all knocking through walls like the Kool-Aid man. Trust me, I am the best friend any of you will ever have!

That's all for now kids!

PS. I have recently learned that not all princes are really frogs, not all carriages turn into pumkins at midnight, and sometimes it's just better not to go there!

Totally Obscure No Sense Making Entry...

Well, I just spent the last thirty minutes contemplating this entry. Going over the basics of the entire blog really. For those of you that blog know exactly the kind of thought process I'm talking about. The whole who should I clown, who shouldn't I clown, how politically incorrect can I be without getting taken down by the FBI, is the crazy face I made at the thought of his penis really worth talking about. It was that sort of thing with a short interlude of cell phone Tetris thrown in for good measure. And it occurred to me that every person I meet on a day to day basis is subject to a good clowning on this blog... On the same note it occurred to me that this was so not the week to quit smoking.
Now that I've gotten that whole misunderstood artist thing out of the way I have to talk about the crazy shit that I've experienced in the last week or so. I came back from my trip to the 'Ham for the Thanksgiving holiday (an experience in itself, that I don't even have enough vicodin to go into right now) on Sunday night. I pretty much went home and took a nap for a hot minute. It was then decided by the roommate and I that we would try to be total rockstars (which we're not) and go out for a while and have a drink in celebration of my return home. We ended up heading on down to Tribe to meet a guy, who will be referred to only as Special K from here on out. We meet up with Special K, well not really meet up with him, we sent text messages back and forth across the bar because I am a text message whore. I freely admit my addiction to texting, I actually prefer to a phone call since I've developed this rather attractive old man death bed coughing hacking type thing. Anyway, back to the point. From Tribe we went over to Play (which is exactly ten steps away... Yes, I did count) for what we were told was karaoke night. We were terribly misinformed. Did you know that Play doesn't accept credit cards? What the hell kind of bar is that? I mean, can't a bitch start a bar tab up in here? I have a total aversion to cash so this did not bode well for the Gregster at all. I ordered one beer and a coke totalling something close to $7 or so. Whatever, not the point. Anyway, we hung out a Play for all of ten seconds because I was definitely not feeling the vibe of that place on a Sunday night. Tribe is a lot more fun should you ever hit Nashvegas and need something to do on a Sunday night. We left feeling only slightly fulfilled. Got home and crashed the hell out. Monday morning was not pretty. 'Nuff said. Tuesday night we went with the roommates cousin HDTV (As she will be known on here) to see this really bad ass guitar chick named Ashley McBryde play. She so sweet, such a lesbian! I kissed her later at the Lipstick, but that's neither here nor there. I met a lot of really neat-o (Who says that? I mean really?) lesbians, not of which are bound to become my Nashville lesbians because everybody's a singer up here and I've got a singing lesbian so sorry girls, the position has been filled. After Ashley's set we went to the Lipstick Lounge for some down home big gay karaoke! To say it was disasterous would be the understatement of my life. Ugh... I don't even want to begin, but I will say that the scariest part of my evening was watching Fat Bastard's gay twin brother sing "Pussy Control" and when he came off the "stage" he was introduced to me... I feared for my life. I was definitely not about to become the door prize in some tragic game of "Hungry, Hungry Homos." Wednesday I was having none of this imaginary rockstar lifestyle I had created for myself this week, so I went straight home after work and crashed out. It was nice to feel refreshed the next morning.
Yesterday... Oh god, yesterday was one for the record books and that's all we'll say about it. I could go in to graphic and uncensored details about it, but I'd rather not. I still have a headache from trying to figure out what happened. I will leave you with this little tid-bit of info: I do know what I want, but it's always been more fun for me to have someone else figure it out instead of me having to tell you!
So in closing, I have only this... What do I want to do? I want to sit in my house and smoke like Marlboro man and watch Netflix... ALONE! Now go do your homework and I'll call you later!