Wednesday, March 04, 2009 (Bust Magazine) I'm here in Portland. Like a big slap in the face, it's been sunny the whole time. God, or rather I should say, the idea of God likes fucking with me, or rather should I say, loves fucking with me. So, I got up this morning with a hangover for the first time in a week thank god (for the hangover not the "nice" weather), and I went to go take a shit and was reading this magazine, "Bust". Have you ever read this magazine? It's bewildering to me. You probably think I'm going to talk shit about it. I'm not. It's just a bit confusing. Now, I know a lot of people are going to disagree with me when I say this, and fine whatever, I'm going to go ahead and say it anyway: I think men and women are pretty much the same. well, actually, I think men and women are totally the same. We all want the same things: happiness, comfort, companionship, fun, accomplishment, satisfaction, alcohol, butt sex. But, you know, when I was reading this magazine, it opened up a whole nother world to me. I had no idea all these things existed. For example, did you know that in the job market, statistically speaking, if you're a woman, you get paid better determined by how good looking you are? I think the same thing applies for men too, but they're not oppressed, so it's different. Did, you know they make washable Maxi Pads? You know, I'm sorry, I set out to make a point here, but after, "fun, accomplishment, satisfaction, alcohol, butt sex," I completely forgot what the point was or why it was even supposed to be interesting in the first place. March 6th, 2009 (REJECTION) When I was a little kid, I knew another little boy that hit on every single girl he encountered to be rejected nine times out of ten, to me it didn't even seem worth it. Rejection, it's not a pleasant emotion. "Doesn't that hurt your feelings when they turn you down?" I asked while lounging in the jacuzzi in an apartment building of which we knew nobody. I remember it like yesterday. Sweat was trickling down his forehead. It wasn't from the hot water. It was 95 degrees outside. We got in the hot water just to be funny, God Bless Texas. "Waaa Waaa! Oh. she rejected me. I'm not sure if I can go on any longer." "Oh yeah, I guess I get your point." "Oh boo fucking hoo. She doesn't like me. I'm hideous." "Yeah, you're right. It's dumb to let it affect you." "Oh, I'm just going to curl myself into a little ball and cry myself to sleep." "You know, I get your point. I feel like you're making fun of me. Can we talk about something else?" In mocking falsetto, "Oh, I'm Tomatoes, and if a girl doesn't let me kiss her, I lock myself in the closet huffing rubber cement and cutting myself for a week." I haven't seen him in quite some time. And, suffice it to say, whatever in the fuck that means, I hope he died in a terrible car crash. But, still, . . . he had a point. Thursday, February 12, 2009 (You Eat Shit, Dad) Your name is Alejandro, motherfucker! But, you call yourself, Alex! It makes me fucking sick. You're pretending to be something you're not, and it makes me so ashamed of you! You forced me to cut my hair when I was 6-years-old, and I told you I would never forgive you for that, and you just treated me like I was being a stupid little kid. Well, guess what you literal motherfucker?!?!?!? I still haven't forgiven you for that! Nor will I ever! How fucking dare you?!?!?! To force somebody to cut their hair. That's preposterous. Some guys like having short hair. Some girls like it too. And, that's fine. But, I don't! I never have! They gave me such a hard time about it in elementary school. And, I always refused to stand for the pledge of allegiance, and I still do that at Dodgers games, but whatever. Nobody fucking cares. I live in the not-giving-a-shit capital of the world for a reason. Well, actually, to be honest, I just show up late. Whatever, go Dodgers! and go Houston Assholes and go the imaginary team that I believe to exist in Austin! And, we went to San Francisco once on the BART, and we were walking around, and we went to Tower Records over there, and you told me to pick out a record, "whatever I wanted", and I picked out a Slayer record, and you and your bullshit evil Christian wife insisted on reading the lyrics, and right there, at the BART station, you publicly threw out the record in the fucking garbage. Right in front of a bunch of people. Knowing full well that once I got back to Texas, I would just buy that exact same record. You eat shit, dad. But, then again, let me put myself in her shoes, I mean his, but it's really her's. If I ever had a son or daughter (which I won't because of my vasectomy), and I took them to the record store, and they picked out some christian bullshit, I would throw that shit in the garbage so quick. I would break it into a million pieces, take a shit on it, invite strangers to vomit on it, spit on it one last time, throw it in a dumpster, soak it in gasoline, and light it on fire. What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, that's right. You eat shit, dad.