Black Milk

No rest for the wicked. No rest for the weary.

Either way I’m screwed.

The curious transformation of this, my own little piece of internet real estate, strikes me as retardedly predictable. It’s gone through several phases since its inception: idle diversion, amusing passtime, needy dependant, and backbreaking responsibility. Not that I don’t enjoy being here with you kids, but shitfuck I’m busy. Neglecting this damn thing isn’t healthy for either one of us, so here I am forsaking sleep to bring the pain hardcore from the brain.

Straight verbin.

And while we’re on the topic, what the hell am I supposed to say to you people that tell me you read my shiz? That’s like saying “Oh, hey, you were just sitting weird and I saw up your shorts and looked at your junk.” Wtf do I say?

What’d ya think?
Didn’t I tell you I was demented?


Shit I don’t know. Granted the entire purpose of this thing is to be read, but with one way exchanges of information like this, you assholes always have me at a disadvantage. Judgmental bastards.

The rains have come, and come hard. It poured all day, not the kind of poignant, melancholy rain you see in sad music videos, but vicious, snarling, bitter rain. I enjoyed it for about an hour when the fellas and I stood screaming defiance at the pathetic Texas State team during the homecoming game on Saturday. The torrents washed away all the riff raff, scaring off all the bandwagoners and alumni, leaving only the hardcore. Ridiculous rain kicks the epicness of painted-face shirtless top-of-your-lungs football fanaticism up a notch or two, but off the field I’m very over it.

Driving rain and dark skies, wind and cold… I have a hard enough time getting up and out of the house as it is, and when my natural bent toward hibernation and hermitude get boosted by foul weather patterns, well, it’s a god damn miracle I make it out the door at all. Even as we speak… well, I guess as I speak, I find myself wanting to write about unhappy things, about weaknesses and mistakes and regrets, rather than the full-tilt jaw-clenching scathing shit I should be cranking out. It’s like that part in the Neverending Story, and I’m like that god damn horse in the swamp that just gives up and sinks in. But you know what? Fuck that. Fucking Artax should have sacked up and QBAB’ed his way through the hard times, but he wasn’t ice cold. He wasn’t made of stern enough stuff, he was weaksauce. He wasn’t me.

The first casualty of the storm season was, woefully, my TV. As an engineer, you’d think I’d recognize the fact that chimneys are not one way streets, and that if smoke can get out, water can get in. We keep (kept) our TV in the fireplace, and now, wet and defeated, it sits in the middle of the floor emitting an awful high pitched whine, even though it’s unplugged. I thought about taking the back off to try and dry it out, but then remembered that I’m not actually retarded and have better things to do than fondle a giant wet overcharged electromagnet. We’ll see if I can coax the bastard back to working order in a few days, otherwise we’ll throw it off an overpass or toss it in the bonfire or sell it on eBay “as is”.

Your homework is to read Kurt Vonnegut’s Slapstick and build a shrine to his genius in your living room, paying homage at least once a day and sending flowers and cashiers checks to him as often as possible. Just don’t build it in the fireplace.

I should write something about Harry’s in Pismo, definitely the best bar on the Central Coast, but I’m running on fumes. So, to conserve my last bit of energy, here are some key points, not listed in any particular order, and not in complete sentences:

Cover band: AC/DC, Billy Idol, Zeppelin, Creedence, more AC/DC
Faded tattoos, leather vests
People over 30 can’t dance
Bar fights
Awesome Budweiser light fixtures
Soss puking up Singapore Slings in the alley
Cigarettes, raspy laughter, and always, the rain




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