This morning, another weird dream, sigh...

This morning, I was reading the Decameron, and its introduction, which is blazingly boring, like reading a 14th century feminist literature book. I decided to take a catnap. I had the weirdest fucking dream ever. Which is pretty much par for the course for me.

I had this dream where I was in the deep-south competing in the strangest competition. The announcer had a deep stereotypical drawl, but with a derogatory, “I married my sister and raped your dog” sound. Ewww. The competition was set up where there was a gigantic t-shirt launcher, almost like a cannon, which fired wet, soggy beanbag chairs. The main competitors were extremely obese southerners who wore flannel shirts with all the buttons undone because their beer bellies were so big. And me, for some inexplicable reason. I came after the main champ, the fattest, nastiest, smelliest one, wearing a white shirt, two sizes, two small, with deep yellow stains in his armpits, a day old shave that looked a month old, and a mullet. A freaking mullet. The cannon would launch these beanbags, and the competitor would stand across a field and basically chest palm it, and then deposit it into a garbage pail. He set the record for a dozen bags deposited. He proceeded to have cardiac arrest, which he cured with a barbeque sandwich.

It was finally my turn. The beanbag rocketed through the sky at a frightening velocity. I attempted to track it with my eyes, still bewildered to how I got myself into this situation, unaware it is but a dream. It went into its downward projection, and I opened my arms and let out a bestial scream, which sounded more like a mouse roaring at drywall. The bag hit me full on, and I did a backwards somersault, and lay prone for about thirty seconds. I thought my entire ribcage and sternum just exploded. I crawled to the garbage pail and deposited my prize. One. I gave a wave to the announcer signaling my submission.
“Pussy!” he barks in his drawl. I weakly lift a middle finger, then I passed out with multiple fractures, also shamefully in last place, completely emasculated.

This is how I start my fucking morning, to every single southern stereotype, and virtually neutered. LadeedoodeefuckingDA. Skipping on my heels now.

Random Thoughts from My Daily Amusement

My mind
I love my internal narrator with his silky smooth voice. I think Barry White is the spokesman for my conscience.

Cascade
My uncle taught me an interesting way how to remove anthills. Put a couple drops of Cascade dishwasher fluid near an anthill, and the worker ants will bring it back to the colony, where it will poison and kill EVERYTHING. How sinister and nefarious.

Sports Illustrated
I do believe I am the only straight man on the planet who gets the Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition for the articles. I swear, some of the women in those issues are terrifying. In this recent one, one of them had a Michael Strahan gap between her teeth... ewwww

CURSES
Curse you shaving mishap in the nether regions of my body. I would make a forest fire joke, but in lieu of the recent forest fires in Australia and California, it would most likely cause my imminent departure to hell. Or a job offer as a writer for South Park.

Regret.

Throughout my vast, illustrious writing career of twelve years, eleven of which have been unduly forced upon me by cruel, apathetic teachers/drill sergeants, there has been a single piece of literature that I have created that has caused cascades of self loathing, frequent recurring nightmares and general disgust; I must confess, I wrote an emo poem once. Just once. And I deeply regret it with the entirety of my being. To define an emo poem, it is the type of poem written by people with porcupine hair, who are allergic to sunlight and generally spend twenty-two of the twenty-four hours of the day brooding. The other two are for styling their hair. It is a poem drenched in whininess, purposeless, and will guarantee to make a person’s day worse.
This assignment is an attempt to find any redeeming factor, anything I learned from writing something I am so ashamed of. First and foremost, I learned to never write after a catastrophic Valentines Day. Secondly, I will never write a poem in the dark ever again. Lastly, before I scrub the rest of this experience from my memory, I learned poetry should be used to convey a significant image or concept, not to rant. That’s what a blog is for.
What is emo poetry worth? Very little. It can be a good example for what poetry should never resemble. It serves as a voice for not for those without a voice, but those who should never be heard. It’s useful for making a horrendous day incrementally worse. It is a good/horrifying experience for a writer; it is incredibly self-revealing, the more one actually begins to seriously write like an angry adolescent is when one should find a new profession. However, if taken in jest, it is a wonderful tool to scare relatives.

Poetry

All of my poetry which was previously posted here, I transferred over to my new blog, http://poetryunbridled.blogspot.com/

Grammar police, fuck off.

A product of Facebook

20 Absolutely random things about myself.

1. I think Miley Cyrus is definitely at least top ten Scariest people on the planet, if not top five.
2. I actually think the majority of people are terrifying, intimidating, psychotic or mind-numbingly boring, and if they aren’t any of those, then they are fascinating.
3. I probably ate something in the last 24 hours that isn’t technically edible. Oops.
4. I’ve slept for two days straight. Not sure why.
5. I have a fun habit of walking into stop signs, fire hydrants, parked cars, pedestrians, not parked cars, because I never pay attention to anything when I am walking.
6. When I was twelve, I ate four foot-long hot dogs, 3 liters of soda, and 2 bowls of instant noodles in one sitting.
7. Chihuahuas also make my list of Scariest things in the world. And Tom Cruise.
8. My favorite word is watermelon. Close second is pudding.
9. I had a dream where my friend broke into my room when I was taking a nap in a recliner and threw a live vampire bat at me, which woke me up in both my dream and in reality.
10. That same friend caught me dancing vigorously to The Temptations.
11. I have an enormous crush on that girl from Arrested Development. No, not Michael Cera.
12. My favorite superhero ever is Matter Eater Lad. Duh.
13. I hate shots. With a fiery passion. Needles are so frightening.
14. I am so scared of a ninja mugging. Am I the only one who looks for escape paths whenever I enter a room?
15. I am a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and probably couldn’t fight my way out of a soggy, cardboard box.
16. I am prejudiced against any valley girl or emo kid. “Like totally OMG, lolz.” Hawthorne Heights = Sucks so hard.
17. I’ve found my senior year of high school that I actually like writing, mostly because it’s fun seeing people cringe at the insanity that I put on paper.
18. I am a nerd to the n'th degree, beyond normal human comprehension. But I will never be a trekkie.
19. I never learned to ride a bike, nor do I plan to, because I have about as good balance as blind appendage-less toad with an inner ear infection.
20. I would like to conclude with an obvious statement. I am weird as fuck. And I love it. Normal is boring.

Hope

Hope, the basis of optimism, it is the fantastical delirium that blinds the common man from the sickening reality of his own mundane life. Hope represents everything that we cannot be and yet still stupidly aspire to nonetheless. Hope is a drug in which there is no rehabilitation program in a sterile environment, supported by your loved ones and professionals trained to help you: rather it is the opposite. We exist in an unfriendly world filled to the capacity with soulless lumps of flesh that interact with such pitiful shallowness, where we are surrounded by individuals, and yet we are completely and utterly alone.

Perhaps Hope, even though it may only be an illusion, a creation of our exceedingly weak minds, is a necessity for survival. For is it not the goal to live, for our hearts to keep on beating, so we can find purpose in our lives, in where there may not be one? For hope transforms us from the mindless robots we may biologically represent, into motivated people, deluded into imagining that we can not simply exist, but to live. Even though we are merely an insignificant blip on the unimaginably vast spectrum of our universe, with hope, that blip finds meaning. Life is precious, shall we never forget that.

My personal experience with writing

Writing to me is can be equated to sculpting. When the project is first begun, a general idea of what shape the artist intends the sculpture to possess. For example, sculptor sees a majestic horse and would like to immortalize its graceful figure. The block of stone, in due time, begins to resemble an outline of a horse. However, in the process of sculpting, the artist, in a fit of passion, strikes the hammer down too swiftly and creates a line down its side. The sculptor realizes that the sculpture looks better now, and utilizes the line, until eventually it turns into a different beast, a zebra, perhaps. Writing can start with a relatively clear idea of what the desired end outcome is, but the act of writing can create a beast with a life of its own, and take on a completely different direction, a journey which we are privy to accompany.