It's like: feelings (ew), this american life

a rain-soaked wonderland of gumballs and mutilated cattle, caught on 8mm film

By dusty (April 4, 2008)

Today I killed someone.

That is a total lie, actually. However, I feel like I killed someone today. And feeling like you have killed someone is a feeling that I can imagine is only furthered by the actuality of the act. That is probably not true at all either, but what I did do was tell my roommate I am moving out.

And knowing that he will never find someone as good as me; never find another man to secretly and deeply lust for; never find a man who looks this good with this beard; never find a man who will satisfy his hunger for perfection the way I most certainly do — that is a tough pill to swallow. (Seriously, though, I really hate swallowing pills. When I was a kid my mom even had to crush them and hide them in a brownie to get me to take them.)

So, left with the knowledge that I have surely crushed my roommate’s spirits and possibly driven him to the edge of the metaphorical cliff, or the theoretical bridge, or the figurative noose, I feel that I must do something to save him.

But what? A cake? What if I get the wrong kind? Does he even like cake? I think he might be lactose intolerant? A Valentine’s day card? Valentine’s day was weeks ago! A Mother’s day card? I am sure my own mother would be pissed.

The best solution I have come up with is to simply kill him in his sleep and save him from the misery he is surely feeling and will undoubtedly feel for the remainder of his life.

Because in the end, murder is just an act. And my new house is really cool.

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It's like: feelings (ew), the art of seduction, this american life

the impossible mystery of the sun’s coronal problem revealed

By dusty (March 14, 2008)

Today I flew a kite. Well, I tried to fly a kite. Kites are HARD TO FLY in this digital age. I remember a simpler time, when a kite consisted of a few sticks, some string, and a piece of fabric of some sort. Apparently that time exists no longer.

When we got to the park (we equals two friends and me), the seemingly impossible task of assembling the kites began. Unfortunately, I do not know anyone who works at NASA or any other spacecraft-manufacturing company, so we were left to do this using our own street-hardened, 2.7-GPA brains. After several hours of assemblage, one kite was ready to go. One of us was assigned to man its flight, and the other two began to put together the second kite.

However, a problem immediately reared its head. The kite was missing a crucial support beam, rendering it a useless, mildly-retarded down-syndrome beast of a flying machine. With no plutonium or iron ore stores nearby, we were left to use the knowledge we learned in prison: we fashioned a beam with sticks and fused them together by melting a piece of plastic around the joints with a lighter.

But that didn’t work. At all. It soon became obvious that we would have to give up one of the kites and focus on launching the second (imagine being forced to perform a second-trimester abortion to just one of your unborn baby twins…that is how we felt at that point). It took many attempts, but eventually we were able to get the healthy kite into the air (and for a time, it was roughly 50 feet high). Let me tell you, the sense of accomplishment and glamor felt when successfully launching a 74-inch plastic dragon creature into the air is unparalleled. Now I know what God feels like. And it feels good. Like God, but with an extra ‘o’ and a lowercase ‘g’.

When the doomsday bombs are dropped on this country and the apocalyptic Armageddon sirens are blaring, I won’t be boarding up my house and running to my subterranean nuclear safehouse; no, I will be outside, flying a kite — because when a kite is twisting and flapping freely in the wind, who cares about a nuclear holocaust. You know?

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It's like: feelings (ew), this american life, unicorns & rainbows

the tumbleweeds of life’s highway and tom sawyer’s eventual self-realization

By dusty (March 12, 2008)

The weather is amazing today. The weather also was amazing today. Also, the weather inside of me is amazing: a breezy wind of happiness and joy has swept away the cold, tumultuous thunderclouds of fear and angst. The PMS is gone, and with that, I digress:When I was a kid (I still am), I loved days like today. I walked around. And then I drove around. (And then there was car accident which forced me to drive 2mph and it took me roughly 40 minutes to go three exits on the freeway and I humbly and silently cursed the world around me.) But then I was able to go 65 again and I was happy at the world again.

And the world is happy with me, too, I think. A lot has happened in the past year and a half, and the world has been around to lend me some cash and have picnics with me and skip underneath the sun on the beach to the tune of The Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”. Except for the weekends it goes away on a coke bender and I get pissed at it and threaten to put it in rehab and kick its ass and ruin all of my friendships, it’s been a pretty damn good friend to me. And that makes me even more happy than I already am (which is very happy).

Item #2: SALE! SALE! SALE!
I put my ex’s engagement ring on Craigslist the other day, and one particularly resourceful young man offered to trade me a 9mm for it (perhaps with the intention I was going to use it to kill my ex). I didn’t do the trade, though. Not only because I don’t care enough about my ex to kill her anymore, but also because I prefer the comfort that a wad of cold, hard cash gives me. It is so much more fulfilling than a loaded gun. And although I respect John Lennon’s opinion (in a world sans-Yoko), I prefer to think happiness is a warm $795 OBO.

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It's like: feelings (ew), this american life, unicorns & rainbows

a vaccination for genetic mutation; the trials and tribulations of one man’s quest for love

By dusty (March 7, 2008)

Today I am happy. Sort of. I think.

I went to the vet to get tested for PMS this morning, which thankfully seems to have gone dormant in my blood stream. (The vet said testing my blood was the only way to check for the virus since I wasn’t crying during the appointment.) It is a confusing disease, but one that I believe I am cured of!

However, and this is hopefully only temporary, I can still feel the aftereffects in my system. These “feelings” are still inside of me — how do I make them stop? I tried doubling my daily iron intake but have not noticed any positive results so far. I cannot imagine living a life full of post-traumatic PMS flashbacks.

And thus, heed this cautionary tale and be SAFE, dear reader — Lord knows, this could happen to you, too.

Item #2: The Hunger
My hunger is rising like the boiling mercury in a Phoenician thermometer. It cannot be quelled: it is just there, pestering me with its waves of nausea and insidious annoyance. This is no metaphor, either. What I am talking about is food. My hunger is for food, not some kind of allegorical life lesson. I want to eat. I want to devour a cow. I would eat a baby. I would eat my own baby. I am hungry. So hungry, that I am going to order some food.

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It's like: feelings (ew), this american life, trepination

how to survive multiple bear attacks in successive days:

By dusty (March 6, 2008)

Today, I am sad.

And it has nothing to do with bears or the attacks of bears. Mostly I am sad because I have been contaminated with PMS, probably from a female acquaintance. If you are unfamiliar with this disease, I will fill you in: it is a ruthless virus that makes women bleed from their souls and gives them a thirst for the blood of men.

Also it makes them cry a lot.

Somehow (life is unfair, I realize) I have contracted this horrible beast of a virus, and now I find myself doing nothing but thinking about feelings and feelings and feelings (and also food, sometimes. Oh, and booze).

Anyway, as such, I am sad.

How long will this last? Are my days numbered? Was it a good idea to leave my phone at home so as not to allow anyone to contact me? What is going to happen to me? Why is there a pig on TV?? So many unanswered questions, and with them, I begin this blog. In it, you will get to know the real me — the myth behind the man, the monster that lives deep under my metaphorical bed.

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