Gone Fishing

For whatever reason, I have a voice inside my head telling me that there really is someone out there for me. This is some form or other of schizophrenia instilled in children (or at least this child) at a very young age. Yea, little third grade guy, don’t worry you caught Jenny behind the slide at recess getting the old three finger bang from Kyle, there are more girls out there. Don’t worry little high school pre-man, even though your girlfriend let six other guys in your grade fill the inside of her cervix (not to mention the one other guy in the grade below she let fill her rectum) with all different kinds of latex and petroleum products. There are other fields to plow. And yea sure, college is a time for experimenting, but did Becky really need three different orifices stuffed with ten different dicks (none of them yours)? It seems the mounting evidence against the lie that is “there is someone out there for you” is more than enough to abandon this antiquated belief. There is no one out there for anybody. While you and the rest of the brainwashed idiots sit on the couch and wait for “the one,” Kyle is putting his love stick in every hole of every girl you ever talked to, and he’ll end up married before you do. Whether you are looking to have sex, or have someone to talk to, or have a relationship, or just have someone to separate your penis from your balls and your balls from your legs with their fingers, you need to take who you can get. Put it in anyone that will let you, or anyone that’ll get drunk enough to not know. Take advantage of every chance you get. Talk to them all. Ask them all to come home with you. Put their hands down your pants and make them cup your nuts. But I’m giving you advice that I can’t even follow. So I put my laptop on the toilet tank and stand straddling the bowl. I get some shampoo or shaving cream or if I’m lucky, I even find some Vaseline. And I watch one of those girls I turned down because they weren’t my soul mate get so much pipe laid in her that her insides look like a Super Mario level. Eventually I take a step back, angle it down slightly, and let her rip into the toilet. I catch my breath, look down and smile. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, they aren’t lying. There really are plenty of fish in the sea.

420

either shit or get off the pot.

Tapout

So I was at the gym yesterday (yea, I'm really good looking + I like to work out my snakes (arms) = women love me) and much like every other place that isn't a gym, I saw about a billion guys there wearing fight shirts. Those guys are so badass. I didn't actually even get to see what the guys looked like. The first thing I saw were there shirts, and, instantly intimidated as I was, averted mine eyes so as to avoid provoking them. Yea ladies, I can bench press about four hundred twenty pounds (weed) but I still don't like to fight. But anyway, I got to thinking, and I determined these urban warriors obviously need people to know they are tough. These guys must operate on some sort of points system where you advance through the proverbial organization the more people you make think can be beaten up by you. I can only imagine that the person with the least amount of points at the end of the day/week/month/year/fiscal year etc. et al. is ceremoniously murdered by William O'Leary. Anyway, being the lover of peace that I am, I don't want anybody being killed. So here was the wife altering decision I made. From now on when I see somebody wearing a fight shirt, I'm simply going to walk up to them, introduce myself, and then punch myself in the penis and balls. Thus will I complete the selfless sacrifice of my statuesque body, offering my measly Hulu-credit of punching to those stronger than me.

Psychology

There is nothing else in the room. Only a pencil on a table, a rug under a table, and maybe my spirit under that. I'm sitting here, sweating my ass off and all I can think about is, where am I going after this? In every sense of the question, where am I going after this? And in every sense of the word this, where am I going after this? No amount of clinical trials, double blinded studies, questionnaires, surveys, nothing, could determine the answer. The answer, some say, comes in the form of conformity. However, they are wrong. No amount of conformity could sweep me along in the river of everyone else and take me somewhere. I could follow the line straight to the oval office and I'd still be nobody. Set me down in Milgram's chair and shock me, or tell me to shock someone, it doesn't matter, in the end we all end up in the same place, and we'll probably all end up shocked. There's a beautiful woman (as there always is) and she's looking right through me. Straight through to the next nobody sitting nowhere in the not chair next to not me. And with every breath she takes I can feel that much more oxygen leave the room. The air getting thinner and thinner here in this ground level Everest. An insurmountable mountain that I can not only not climb, but I probably couldn't even manage to tumble down it head first into powdery white, silent oblivion. But it is not snowing outside right now. It is a beautiful day and every bit of it is wasted on me. It is like two people trying to avoid meeting each other, even though they know it is inevitable. I sit on a bench and look, my scowl deep and my sunglasses on, and there the weather sits, looking back at me, daring me to enjoy it, sending a squirrel to talk to me, but I ignore it. And there in the distance is her, I swear it's her even though none of it makes a lick of sense. But I know it's her and she is sick but I'm sicker, and she is lick but I'm liquor. One hundred gallons deep in my thoughts where even a headshake won't shake her mirage. And I look into her eyes and I ask, "is that you?" but I don't even stick around for the answer, I'm out of here before she can leave me first. And before you know it, it's just me again, that blank stare, that gapping grease hole of a mouth, various other holes poked into my otherwise useless face. Fighting against this time-warping clone machine. I see the exact copy of everyone I used to know just older, more experienced, less accomplished, more skin, less substance, more words, less to say.