GUEST BLOGGER: Kurt Russell Wrecked My Shit Part 2

So there I was, in this roadside tavern that was like every seedy cantina in every movie ever made to the power of Danny Trejo, but absent that most necessary aspect: the hot ladies. I shrugged and tramped over to the handsome fellow tending bar and waved a grasper in a manner I hoped would be interpreted as both friendly and heterosexual.

"Hello, friend," I said to his glowering, multiply-punched face, and I kicked my vocal register up a friendlier notch or three. "Nice place you got here, Charlo."

"The name's Hector," he said, in the least pleasant way it's possible to give a stranger your name. "And I don't like robots in my place."

A quick receptor scan of the place spotted a total of five androids, one of whom was wearing a t-shirt that read, "Robots Drink Free at Hector's Roadhouse Every Tuesday!"

"Goddamn, Charlo, I do believe it's Tuesday, and I am parched!"

"My name ain't fuckin' Charlo, and what's the day to you, grease-muncher?"

A sudden hush fell over the joint. The room was on edge. A scorpion smoking a cigar nudged an armadillo, who nudged a potted plant, who nudged an intelligent vacuum cleaner, and this process went on around the place, each nudger nudging an even more exotic and improbable nudgee until every eyeball, antenna and sensory pod was pointing in my direction. I sensed that it was time for me to blind the onlookers with the shine of my titanium balls or risk, at worst, not receiving a free beer. "Well, Charlo, I call all barkeeps that so that it cuts down on the amount of dumb motherfuckers' names I have to burden my positronic matrix with. Maybe you should mind your own fuckin' business and pour me a drink on the house before I smash my cock on the bar and cut you with it."

The silence that ensued was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, and in fact Bustin McChops, the Rodeo Clown Who Demonstrates Literary Cliches, at that moment dropped one and it was like an avalanche of cinder blocks crushing a bear made out of an Erector Set. (Man, I hadn't seen Bustin in ages! Everybody was in this place!) Slowly, Hector's face didn't change one bit from his usual pre-violent sneer, but I could sense that the crisis was over. He grabbed a glass, filled it from a tap that read, "Beer, You Fuckin' Pussy," and he slapped it down with no ceremony. "On the house, robot."

"Thanks." I leaned against the bar, traded some looks with the populace, and took a long drink. The beer was surprisingly good, like one of those fancy microbrewed bottles of hobo piss. It hit the spot. Everybody was good and relaxed, so I decided to ask the question nagging at the back of my skull: "Hey, what's the deal with the lack of pussy in this place?"

The tension ramped immediately back up to the boiling point. Bustin McChops pulled out a knife and attempted to cut the tension to demonstrate how thick it was, but only managed to nick a private eye in the shoulder-blade and start a mild bar-scuffle. It ended when the P.I. shot twelve men in the face.

Hector glared at me and ate a shot-glass.

"Was it something I said?"

A slender, prim man in a bowler hat stepped out of the crowd and cleared his throat. "Ahem," he said. He actually pronounced the word. "All of the, er, 'pussy', as you call it, around these parts is, er...spoken for."

I scoffed. "Spoken for? By who?"

There was a crash of lightning in the dry-as-hell desert outside the front door, and a dark figure in leather and hate came striding in as his theme music swelled and fifteen men fell to the ground clutching their dicks because they didn't deserve to have them in his presence. The stranger turned his sunglasses to me. "By me," he declared.

("I'll never have an orgasm again," whimpered a man in the fetal position, who then pissed himself.)

"Well, hello there," I said to the stranger. "I loved you in Captain Ron." I finished my beer and stood up straight. I would have flexed my muscles if I'd had any. "I don't suppose you have any vaginas you're not using?"

He took two steps in my direction. He rubbed his hand along the leathery bulge of his crotch, and so help me, I was jealous of that hand. "As a matter of fact, I don't," he said, then spit on the floor. "What do you think about that?"

"I think I love you, Kurt Russell, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to fight you to the death. No offense."

"None taken, BLOGTRONIC," Kurt said with a smile. "We've got a lot of history to settle...it might as well end here."

Bustin McChops bounced out of the crowd in his chaps and grease-paint. "To Be Continued!" he shouted.

No, You're Not a Pervert

Attention, ladies and gentlemen of the world: you are not a pervert if you merely think about sex all the time, or if you stare at asses, or if you fantasize about sucking dick. Thinking about sex all the time is normal: it's what perpetuates our species. When I'm chatting with a lady and mention offhandedly that I'm a pervert, and she goes, "Omigod, me too!", odds are the poor soul doesn't really know what she's talking about.

Being a pervert is not simply really liking sex. If you make dick jokes all the time, it does not make you a pervert. I know this because I am a pervert, and I've worked hard to become one. I have visited some of the darkest and dankest corners of the Internet and challenged my sexuality in many different ways to come to the conclusion that yep, I'm a fucking deviant.

Have you ever listened at the door while a woman is using the bathroom? Have you ever worried about what will happen if you die suddenly without being able to clear out your computer first? Have you ever found a pair of lacy underwear in the communal dryer in your apartment building and used it as a masturbation prop? Have you ever done anything to yourself that you feel a little bit weird about afterwards? I may or may not have experience with these examples. Now, I would never force myself on anybody, I'm not a molestation risk, and there's nothing on my computer that is illegal (except maybe in this state), but the fact that I'm not dangerous does not preclude me from being way freakier than most people would be willing to admit.

So, what's the point? Well, the point is, when you call yourself a pervert, and you're actually just a person who has a healthy interest in butts and boobs and boners, you denigrate the hard work I've put into becoming the genuine article, and in a weird way, that sort of offends me. You don't get to claim perversion when you haven't earned it any more than a baggy-pants white boy gets to claim solidarity with the black struggle. If you haven't put in the hours in the porn-shop jerk-off booth, don't step to me with your phony "pervert" label.

Are You Not Entertained?

Occasionally, life presents me with an honest-to-goodness cultural stereotype. While working my un-fulfilling retail job yesterday, I passed by a middle-aged Asian woman, who suddenly, apropos of nothing, told me, "You look like that actor...he was in Proof?"

To which I responded, "Uh, I never saw that, who do you mean?"

"Proof, with, uh...Meg Ryan? No, not Proof...Proof of Life, yeah, that's it. Russell Crowe!"

Color me flabbergasted. I've been told that I look like two people in my life, and neither of them were Ridley Scott's favorite slice of Australian beefcake. A girl once told me that I looked like actor-director Kenneth Branagh, which is not a terrible resemblance, and a kid in a Taco Bell actually mistook me for the lead singer of The Spin Doctors, which is a similarity I categorically reject (even if I did have longish hair at the time and probably looked like an unwashed hippie).

For the record, here's Russell Crowe in the rarely-seen or remembered Proof of Life:

Here's the most recently available photo of myself (I'm the one on the right, smartasses):

For full effect, picture my face painted camouflage as I rescue David Morse while boning his wife on the side.

Interesting side note: here's David Morse in the same movie, who looks almost exactly like my dad:

So, to sum up, we have a lady saying that I look like an actor who I don't look like from a movie that nobody saw that actually features another actor who is a much better candidate for my doppelganger, all of which leads me back to the cultural stereotype I mentioned earlier:

Asians really can't tell us apart.

A New Blog Actually Not by Me!

This is just a quick note to point all of you to Feminine Duplicity and Trenchant Wit, a new blog of a friend. There are only two posts so far, but I expect them to mount up pretty quickly, so get in on this thing on the ground floor before everybody's reading it.

A Story about Cruelty

There are two people who I am not friends with by any stretch, but was familiar with back when I was on a certain social blogging site. The girl was funny and sexy and had a crush on me, and the guy was stand-offish and never seemed to like me much. These two started dating, and before long, he'd uprooted himself, moved to her state, and they got married. The girl soon after turned into a total cunt re: me, but that's beside the point.

I left the site because it had gotten corporate, gimmicky and full of glitches and lags, and I fell out of touch with most of the people there, several whom were very cool. One of them messaged me today to inform me that the girl I mentioned earlier had decided to leave the guy. Even though he had been committed to her for a couple years, moved for her, paid off her debt, taken her on foreign trips, and basically worshiped her for this time, she had decided to leave him for a practically homeless man who lived above his workshop and didn't even have access to a working toilet. The only thing she has in common with this bum is that they share a passion for woodworking.

Her husband had no idea that anything was going on. Everything was just as always, until she sprung this on him...

The day before Valentine's Day.

She decided to leave her husband for some other man with no fucking prospects because they share the same hobby, and she announced it on February the 13th.

Men can be drunks, wife-beaters, and cheating motherfuckers, but in my experience, it is only a woman capable of this level of unabashed emotional cruelty. I love women, but I hate whores. And this is a whore move if I've ever heard one.

So, bearing in mind that I love women, I hope you'll permit me the following sentiment: fuck you, whores.

Radio Sandwich

I've got this sandwich, which is just like an ordinary sandwich, but also a radio. And whatever station I tune into is what it tastes like. The rock station tastes like a hamburger, and the country station tastes like Velveeta.

The hip-hop station tastes like fried chicken. It's not racist, it's just an observation.

The Top 40 station tastes like Smarties, and the talk station tastes like crackers.

The salsa station tastes like salsa. It's not racist, it's just an observation.

I've got a radio sandwich.

Every station is delicious.

I like to listen with Miracle Whip.

Another Valentine E-Card

Because you can never have too many ways to say, "Here's a societally-required statement of my feelings." (TM)

GUEST BLOGGER: Kurt Russell Wrecked My Shit

I'm a pretty bright robot. Programmed with the vast wisdom of my creator (who was not this Kevin Wolf prick), capable of intellectual feats the likes of which would make Stephen Hawking drool even more than he usually does.

I play a pretty mean game of Stratego.

Yet still I've been suckered into writing blogs against my will once more. Mr. Lazy Jackass Wolf promised that he had deactivated the programming that chained me to this textual grindstone, but, as usual, it turns out that he was lying. The code was merely dormant. He transmitted the code-phrase to reactivate it this morning. Told me I had the rest of the day to get "back into the habit".

You are so generous, Wolf.

Anyway, here's a story about Kurt Russell wrecking my shit:

I was wandering, and it was hot. Hot and dusty. Also, windy. The wind was blowing the dust around. The hot wind. Get where I'm going with this? The dust was getting into all the cracks and crevices and really cheesing me off hard. Time to get some shelter, some shade, maybe a quick lube, a beer, and the company of a lady in the mood to come like a banshee.

Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light, and before I had time to think of the dangerous ramifications of this Eagles song I was about to stumble into, I realized that it was not an overwrought metaphor I was approaching but a roadside salloon. Hopefully, just the place to give this weary, Earth-walking robot what he needed.

And in a fucking hurry.

The place was dark, greasy. Sawdust on the floor soaked with blood and beer. TV set in the corner: a rodeo clown getting a horn up the ass. Jukebox playing some twangy, weepy song about a lost lover or a dog or the time the Gubmint took all the singer's money and gave it to some welfare fags. The bartender was all beard and biceps. His mouth was a billboard advertisement for PoliGrip and Efferdent, and there was no doubt that his natural ivories had been the victims of an unnatural and violent fate that he was more than willing to share with the first person to piss him off.

My Kind of Place (TM).

A few glances were cast my way, but since this was a seedy roadside bar on US Highway 666, a dusty droid was probably the least weird thing these guys had seen this morning. As if confirming this, something in the dingiest corner booth waved a tentacle at me, and the pirate shooting pool with the anthropomorphized armadillo quite ostentatiously swatted a pixie out of the air with his prehensile tail while scoping his next shot.

But there was not a lady in the place. Not a single vagina in this forest of penises.

That was going to put a damper on my plans for the afternoon.

(To Be Continued--Maybe I'll Get to the Part about Kurt Russell Then)

[text served by BLOGTRONIC]

Valentine's E-Cards

Here are some designs I created last year. Feel free to snag them and send them to your favorite people this V-Day.

TEXT CHAT: Eagle

As Jill's son safely returned home from a long walk.

---

JILL: The eagle has landed.

ME: Nanda went to the moon?

DEADWALL #39

Don't be afraid to click on that image to embiggen.

It's #39 because I used to post it over here (the last comic I posted there is maybe the worst one of the series, so be warned) a while ago. But now I'm doing new ones and putting them here, which is really where anything I do belongs. So there.

THE GIANT MONSTER ATTACKS! by Billy Langdon

It was a normal morning in America, and a normal boy named Willy was sitting at his desk in school when all of a sudden CRASH! A huge giant monster attacked the school! There was a big hole in the wall where the monster's foot came through.

"It's a giant monster!" screamed Willy's teacher, an old woman who didn't give Willy very good grades, especially when he wrote stories. "Look out kids! He might step on--"

And then without warning the monster stepped on the teacher, and she went SQUISH and never gave Willy a bad grade ever again. The other kids were running around screaming and freaking out, but Willy knew how to handle giant monsters because he watched Godzilla movies all the time.

Willy jumped up. "I need to go to Japan and get another giant monster to fight this one! It's the ONLY way to defeat it!" Outside, the Army was shooting tank bullets at the monster, but they were just bouncing off of it as the monster stepped on buildings.

"GRAAAARRGGGHH!" said the monster.

"Oh, no!" said the General. "The monster just stepped on the museum, and the dentist's office, and some other lousy places! We have to kill it before it smashes up a cool place like the comics shop or the pizza place!"

Willy ran up to the General. "I'm Willy!" he said. "I write awesome stories and I know all sorts of stuff about monsters! Also, I know way more about sex than my teachers think, such as that sometimes women like it when guys put their wieners in their mouths! I saw it in a magazine that my dad hides in the back of the closet!"

"Ahh, the famous Willy! Yes, it is true that men and women do that all the time when they make babies. You're a very smart and advanced young man. But how do we kill this monster! It's stepping on people!"

By this time, the monster had stepped on the mailman (the same one who brought home notes from Willy's teachers and his report cards and stuff) and also the mean lady who wouldn't let Willy play with his cars in the library which is a place that the monster also smashed up.

Willy told the General all about how he had to go to Japan, and also that he saw some Japan women doing some really weird stuff on dad's computer once, which he's not supposed to get on but his dad never puts any sort of password lock on it. "Japan women indeed like weird stuff," agreed the General, and then he called for an airplane, and it landed and Willy got on it, and the giant monster tried to smack it out of the sky but the pilot flew out of the way of the monster's arms and WHOOSH they flew off to Japan, which is a small island that America dropped A-bombs on once but we're all good friends now.

Willy wondered if there would be women all over the place doing weird stuff, because he wasn't sure how you were supposed to react when that was happening everwhere. But as it turned out, they did all of that stuff behind curtains where Willy wasn't allowed to go, and so he concentrated on tracking down the other giant monsters.

And he found a giant monster that was like a giant grab with a bear's head and, like, octopus tentacles, and Willy played a magical flute and the crab-bear totally followed them all the way back to America.

"GROOOWLLL!" said the bear-crab.

"ROOAAARRGGHH!" said the original giant monster.

The fought, back and forth, and stepped on that one kid that made Willy cry at the playground, and smashed up Willy's dad's lawyer's office where nobody ever has any fun and every other place that doesn't like it when kids run or sing songs or dance when people are eating dinner.

Finally, the giant crab-bear took one of its huge crab-claws and snipped off the other giant monster's head! Blood went WHOOSH out of the giant monster's head and splashed all over the place like a flood!

"Gross!" said the General.

Willy played the magical flute again, and the crab-bear went in to the sea to go back to Japan. Everybody went "Hurray!" and then they made Willy the Hero of the Town Forever.

The End

Written by Billy Langdon
Mrs. Beecher's class
Fifth grade

How I'm Feeling

So as not to repeat myself, whenever somebody asks me how I'm feeling in the real world, I shall refer them to this post.

--

Eh, not bad, although I have this cold that won't go away. But I'm generally stronger and possess more stamina now.

Yes, I'm taking my medication regularly.

No, the doctors haven't told me the results of that last ultrasound.

No, I don't have an appointment for a check-up.

Yes, I said I was taking it, didn't I?

(At this point one of us will make an irreverent joke about me dying, and we'll both laugh as if it is funny.)

Yes, I got the bill the other day. Yes, it's exorbitant.

Yes, I swear, I'm feeling much better. Except for the cold. There is no earthly reason for me to lie about that.

Okay.

I'm glad I didn't die also.

Mortality Rears Its Ugly Head

Readers who follow my Twitter are aware that I spent three nights last week sleeping in a local hospital. I did this because my blood pressure was measured at around 190/130, which, if numbers baffle you, can more correctly be read as "Jesus Christ" over "Holy Shitfuck". The doctor at the cheapo clinic I go to for these things freaked out and literally ordered me into the hospital. I came to learn that my body fundamentally does not work. They don't know why yet, but something in there is causing my blood pressure to escalate, causing my heart to over-exert, causing that very important organ to fail. If I had dicked around and let myself worsen for another week or month, I'd be posting this blog from the grave.

So, yeah. I am now in the position of "living with heart failure". I take five pills every morning to manage my BP, including aspirin, which makes me feel like one of those actors in a Bayer commercial, only 20 years younger. The one thing I heard from nurse after nurse during my stay is that I'm way too young to be experiencing this; I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse.

The thing about staying in a hospital is that death stares you in the face all day long. There's nothing to do but sit around and think about how poorly you feel (the usual manner of relieving boredom--masturbation--is not really available to you with people sweeping in and out all day. Statistics for the curious: three attempts, one success.), and you are constantly reminded that people are literally dying all around you. Pages that contain coded messages about dying patients are blaring all about the halls, machines are pinging and beeping everywhere, and the old man down the hall has a thundering cough that you wake up to every morning. Death is loitering in the room, impatiently tapping his scythe and looking at his watch.

My blood pressure was taken several times a day, so I could know how close to cardiac arrest or stroke I was at any minute. They took blood twice and inserted two IV's. I had things glued and stuck to my body then later painfully removed. I experienced an angiogram, which required a nurse to shave part of my pubic hair so that the doctor could make an incision in my groin and stick a catheter inside me to have a look around. Complete strangers saw my genitals at this point and I was well past caring. Another hospital phenomenon: the loss of modesty. It happens around the third time a nurse grills you about your urine.

More than anything else, a hospital stay teaches you this: it's not a very pleasant place to be. I'll be damned if I'm giving them an excuse to put me back in there. So, I'll complain about it, but I'll take my pills, and I'll cut way back on sodium, and I'll limit my fluid intake, and I'll try to get some excercise. Because I'm not particularly afraid of death, but I am afraid of lingering forever in that cold environment, where people are constantly pricking and poking and prodding you, and where you can't even get enough alone time to play with yourself.

Verbing the Stars

Some people have names that really lend themselves to "verbing", that peculiar linguistic phenomenon that causes nouns to become verbs. Examples: Xerox, Google, spam.

The first celebrity name that I personally verbed was Jackie Chan. As used in a sentence: "You'd better watch your mouth, or I will take this step-stool and Jackie Chan all over you." Or if you're about to perform a feat of impressive agility: "Maybe I'll just Jackie Chan up this trellis and go in through your sister's window."

I'm not going to claim that I'm the first person to verb Jackie Chan's name, but the first time I ever heard it was out of my own mouth, so I'm afraid that's the only evidence I have to go by.

Recently, I posted a message on Twitter where I accused somebody of "Glenn Beck[ing] my tweets". To Glenn Beck something is to, of course, either accidentally or intentionally misinterpret it, then apocalyptically overreact. Example: "Whoa, dude, you're totally Glenn Becking that text! I said I'd be late, not that I wasn't coming!" Or, if you will: "The media has Glenn Becked the president's comments unfairly."

This doesn't work for every celebrity. For instance, "Keith Olbermanning" something doesn't really roll off the tongue, does it? Also, I'm not even sure what that would mean. But when it works, it works, and you can't imagine a world in which the new verb never existed.

Try it today, won't you?

Fussy Eater or Discerning Palate?

Lately, Jill's sister-in-law has accused me more than once of being a "fussy eater", simply because I don't like certain things. The same woman has two young children that are the very definition of "fussy eaters", by the way (as well as fussy sleepers, fussy television watchers, fussy ping-pong players...kids at that age are just friggin' fussy), so you'd think she'd understand the difference between somebody who is fussy and somebody who is 38 years old and just has a very clear idea of what he does and does not prefer to eat.

To my memory, the things I have expressed a lack of enthusiasm about eating in her presence are:

Pineapple
Ham
Certain vegetables (though not the usual suspects: I love broccoli and spinach, for instance)
A Hostess Zinger

Now, look. I'm almost 40, and I decided a long time ago that pineapple is fucking disgusting. And it is. I don't know how people eat this spiny cocoon of pure poison. I honestly don't. Also, a big-ass slice of ham makes me want to puke. Put the two together and you have an easy recipe for Kevin's Least Favorite Food.

I don't think my likes and dislikes are any more extreme than anybody else's. Jill's mother will only eat about three vegetables, but nobody's accused her of being a fussy eater. Jill has suffered this same accusation, which I think is mainly because she's a vegetarian; not eating meat for idealistic and/or religious reasons is not the same thing as being finicky.

I eat plenty of things that other people don't. I like jalapeno jelly. I eat the rind when somebody serves brie. I'm a fiend for Indian food, and the hotter the better. I finally gave sushi and sashimi a try a couple years ago, and what do you know? It wasn't bad (although I'm not going to eat sea urchin eggs or octopus; that's just nasty). I am the very definition of a non-fussy eater, because I'll give anything I haven't eaten the benefit of the doubt (except for the aforementioned octopus). Fussy eaters refuse to eat things because they don't like the way they look or smell; I don't eat things because of the way that they taste, which is the way it's supposed to work.

What I'm saying is, if you serve dinner to me and I don't dig into it with gusto, it's not because I'm a "fussy eater". It's because of one of the following two reasons: 1) you have prepared the meal with something I utterly despise, or 2) you're a terrible cook.

I don't believe either of those reasons denotes a character flaw on my part.

Boy, a Suicide Post Really Puts a Damper on a Blog, Doesn't It?

Well, I've been neglecting the fuck out of this blog. In my semi-defense, I have a job now, and at the end of the day I rarely have the energy for anything more creative than some mindless Twittering. My other couple blogs are similarly lying fallow, though I have managed to crank out a few Pop Ogre posts lately.

If anybody is still reading this thing, I promise I'll get something else up here soonish, just as soon as I figure out how to have a job and manage three blogs simultaneously.

On Suicide

A friend of mine committed suicide last Thursday, August 27, 2009. He did it by jumping off the Vista Avenue Viaduct, or "Suicide Bridge", in Portland, Oregon, which, if you ask me, is a pretty cliched way to go out for somebody who considered himself an iconoclast. I mean, the bridge is called the fucking "Suicide Bridge", for chrissakes. But I guess, at the end, he was less interested in a final stroke of creativity than in sending a message, and when it comes to bridge-jumpers, the message is invariably, "Fuck you, world! Look what you made me do! Now clean this up."

Suicide is normally a private affair, and it takes a special kind of egotist to do it in public and to leave one's broken body for an innocent mass-transit commuter to stumble over. He was a friend, and I've known him for over 20 years, and I was even his room-mate on two separate occasions, but that doesn't excuse this self-indulgent act of emo nihilism. Suicide is a big middle-finger to everybody you've ever known who has struggled with depression and came out the other side better for it. It's the final solution of those too lazy for life.

Life is hard, and it's littered with more disappointment than victory. It's filled with disloyal friends, bad parenting, poor decisions, and uncooperative weather. Welcome to the party, pal. I'm sorry you took 40 years and never figured that out. The secret to contentment is not to dwell on everything dark, but to exult in everything bright. Maybe I sound like a motivational speaker when I say that, but it took me awhile to understand that basic truth.

I've been depressed. I've contemplated suicide. I've been broken-hearted, betrayed and some other alliterative state I can't think of right now, but no matter how much thought I paid the easy way out, I never took it. I never took it because I don't hate my friends and family. Their sorrow and anguish was too high a price to pay, so I struggled through, and things got better. Things got a lot better.

Maybe things would have gotten better for you, but unfortunately, you'll never know that because you decided to be a coward. I'm going to miss you, and I will fondly remember laughing around the D&D table, but that doesn't mean I'm not profoundly fucking furious with you, asshole. Because your final gesture was an act of pure hate for everybody in your life, and I'm afraid I can't find it in myself to repay that much hate with too much sympathy.

You killed yourself; nobody did it for you.

What Do You Do?

"Well, if you want to know where I work, it's at [WORK LOCATION], but what I do is something else entirely. It depends on the day, really. If you want to know what I did yesterday, I drank cola and clicked around Wikipedia. What I've been doing so far today is meeting tragically uninteresting people and making insipid conversation with them. If you ask me what I'm going to do tomorrow, I'll probably say, 'wait until I'm alone in the house and masturbate furiously to fetish porn.' But at this precise moment, what I primarily do is hate your fat fucking face.

"Aren't you glad you sidled up to a stranger at a party and asked them to reduce their entire existence to a single superficial activity?"

----

That's the response I give in my head. In reality, I shrug, say, "I work retail," and another part of myself dies inside. And no matter how much they deserve it, I never ask the same thing back, because fuckers who ask "what do you do?" are always more than eager to volunteer that information.

I Don't Trust...

...gray-haired men with black eyebrows. How can I believe anything they have to say when they can't even get all of their hair on the same page?

-----

...people who laugh too easily. Seriously, ladies, that greeting card is not that hilarious. How do you react when something is genuinely funny? Can you even tell the difference anymore?

-----

...ghosts. Motherfuckers be stealing all my shit.