I am dying in this hellhole of hotness over here in Arizona. Like the Venus (or anus, depending on your definition of horrible heat) of America, the air conditioning is never cold enough and the sun’s cancerous deathrays are relentless and even moving at all makes me sweat the fiery sweat of satan.

But perseverance trumps perspiration and I am soldiering on in my own little soldiery way (laying in front of my fan; aka God’s cold, wondrous breath) and I am saying to the sun: “I hate you”, but it does no good. Monsoon season is pretending not to exist and the dogs are shitting all over my floor and pissing wherever there isn’t shit.

Also, my house was robbed and my laptop was stolen by a too-tall-to-be-a-Mexican with no front teeth and a tattoo on his chest that says “Gumby” in Old English.

Reader, I have not updated you on my life for what seems like many moons but that is all changing because I am back and I am ready to kick some ass and take some names (seriously, what is your name? Let’s be friends). I am lion, hear me roar. I am man, watch me kill.

Let the past not be any indication of the future, though. I promise, things will be different from now. I will change, I can change. Just please, please don’t leave me.

DR PEPPER: haha ya i hate aol

psalty69: me2

psalty69: y dont u have a period btw?

DR PEPPER: because im a man

DR PEPPER: i dont have ovaries

I love a well-manicured lawn more than most things. If I were to compile a list of things I loved, a well-manicured lawn would be very close to the top — sandwiched between the likes of music, It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, the 2008 Arizona Diamondbacks, myself, neon colors and so on.

Earth’s emerald-green, pantyless pubic region; a beautiful taste of forbidden fruit, such a lawn demands my respect and calls out to me in sun-soaked song. Its short, freshly-trimmed blades glistening in the summer heat, gently waving in the gentle breeze — as if posing for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue or a Creed music video. Its perfection so unmatched in matters of perfection, it quietly makes its way into paintings and photographs and our perceptions of idealistic-utopian beauty.

I want to marry such a lawn — to frolic with it, and eat ice cream sundaes and go to a drive-in movie. (Maybe afterwards we could neck in the backseat of my car at Lookout Point.) And every time I see this lawn — this ravishing slew of bugs and dirt and seeds and grass and dogshit — every time I see it, a pang of lust drives its lusty spear straight through my lusting body, reminding me that no girl will ever be as unequivocally amazing as a fucking lawn.

Imagine I am on an island with Dawson Leary (dreamy Dawson Leary, who was not dreamy at all when he was being a whiney, lovestricken bitch), and there is a fire behind us. The fire of a thousand suns (just one, though, technically). And I am telling Dawson Leary my deepest, darkest secrets. I am telling him this: That cockroaches are horrible, horrible dwellers of hell sent from Satan himself (or something worse than Satan, if such a creature of evil exists), and also that I am in love with The American Dream.

Neither of those are actually secrets, but nevertheless, I was telling those things to Dawson Leary in my dream this morning, that smug bastard, and now I am telling them to you because:

I FUCKING HATE COCKROACHES. I HATE THEM. I AM WRITHING AND PUKING MY INSIDES JUST THINKING ABOUT THE DEAD COCKROACHES I SAW IN MY KITCHEN AFTER THE EXTERMINATOR FINISHED EXTERMINATING. I HATE THEM, I HATE THEM. (I FUCKING HATE THEM.)

Those vile, hellion bastards-of-life have probably touched the things I have touched (not including my privates, hoping to God), licked things I have licked (the floor?), eaten things I have eaten. I will never watch Joe’s Apartment the same way again. In fact I will never watch Joe’s Apartment again, period.

“In about 10 days, they will all come out to die,” said the exterminator.

“I will be spending that weekend vomiting and pissing and shitting on myself and the floor in terror — likely an invitation for more cockroaches,” said I.

The American Dream does not include cockroaches. It includes mountains and the wild west and probably drugs and girls and freedom and no-job and trains and ghost towns and tumbleweed. But not cockroaches. Cockroaches are not in the list of possible things The American Dream is supposed to consist of. Cockroaches are what my ex-girlfriend is, or what Criss Angel and Dustin Diamond are. They are not welcome in my house, just as AIDS or cancer are not welcome in my house. In fact, I would rather share a nice dinner and a glass of wine — preferably Cab-Sauv or Pinot Noir, I’m a bitch — with AIDS, or play a friendly game of golf with cancer, than ever see another cockroach again for as long as I live.

Hey Satan: Hey…um…’sup? Yeah? Cool. Umm…not much, I’m good. I would like to live The American Dream sans-cockroaches, please. No seriously. Okay, thanks for understanding. Also fuck you.

The day I was raped of my manhood had all the ingredients of a horror movie. It was a day filled with terror and bliss and pain and screaming and vomit and nudity and choking babies and blood and probably urine. Also it was the day I was born.

You might expect the day I was raped of my manhood to be the day I first entered the workplace, or the day I turned 18, or the day I moved into my own house, or the day I started school. But you would be wrong. Sure, there were times when my manhood was called into question before that fateful day; but none as extreme as being pulled out of a placenta-caked cavity of blood and bodily tissue while pieces of me were being cut off and thrown away.

Things had been going swimmingly in the preceding years: I had beaten all my friends to the fabled uterus to copulate with its beautiful queen egg (who we’ll call Eleanor); survived on nothing but courage and grit (and also a small tube that involuntarily injected various vitamins and fluids into me).

I was in it for the long haul. Trapped in that cave of organs for nine long months, never once did I give up. I persevered, I conquered (and kicked sometimes). I accepted my living quarters and, over time, even grew to enjoy them. It was lonely at times, sure, but there was a certain primitivism to it — a sort of willful disintegration of my pride and spirit (much like prison, except the prison cell was a uterus and the walls were built out of flesh.)

But nothing lasts forever, and just like nothing, neither would this. I was prepared to leave, I really was, but I never expected the horror freakshow that was thrust upon me that winter morning.

In a fit of Nazified rage they came after me — waking me to screams of pain and bleeding, my fragile face pulled through a vaginal cavity surely too small to navigate through. Things began to blur: blood, blood, screaming, vomiting, vaginal walls, more blood, what-is-happening, help, help. I was dying, I was sure of it (or at least going through some kind of Anne Frankian reincarnation). Still dying, though, regardless.

They pulled me out and cut pieces off me, hung me upside down like a prized, freshly slain hog on display in a slaughterhouse. They hit me, alternating the hits with hugs (???) and strange coddling (!?). My manhood was gone. I had become a cog in the machine of emptiness — a vacuous being released from a prison of somatic cells to be beaten and tortured mercilessly in a world of same.

The day I was raped of my manhood.

I am growing an amazing beard.

This beard will be the epitome of me when it is finished. This beard will put Jesus’ and Jim Morrison’s to shame. This beard will define me and enshrine me in a world where beards go to live. I will not touch this beard with metal nor will I touch this beard with flame. I will not give up on this beard, as it is a living, breathing thing (and I am not talking about the micro-organisms probably living and breeding in it but rather the metaphysical, metaphorical aspect that effectively renders this beard a sentient being). No, I will grow this beard and then I will grow it more. When people ask me why my beard is so long I will respond simply and coldly with utter disgust.

The idea to grow this beard to such a point of crucial allure has come and gone and come back again and then gone away again several times in years past, but the time just wasn’t right back then.

But it is now.

I am sticking to my original dream this time. I will not give up like I usually do with most things (which is rather easily). There is a fire inside of me — driving me, steering me, has me on cruise control — forcing me to grow this beard. That fire inside of me is probably some sort of murderous beard-eating ball of flames because, really, why would a fire want me to grow a beard. But nevertheless that fire is there. And questionable intentions or not, it has me in its fiery grip. (A grip which no stop, drop or roll is capable of releasing me from.)

So like a lemming to a cliff or a heart to a heart attack, I go blindly towards the light. I grow my beard and ravage the countryside with glimmers of peace and love and a face that resembles a pubic region.

I am self-righteous and self-gratifying and selfish and self-indulgent and self-absorbed. And that is why I write on this blog (sometimes), and also why I don’t care if you, the reader, care about me, the writer. So pat me on the back, motherfucker, because I am awesome and here is why:

1. I am nearly six feet tall. Officially I am listed at five-foot-eleven and three quarters. So what that means to you is that I have all the beauty of a six foot man without the inherent pretentiousness.

2. I laugh a lot. Mostly at the hilarious things I say but sometimes at the hilarious things other people say and still other times at the hilarious things other people don’t say, because, hey, sometimes people are retards or homeless or crack-addicts or all three.

3. I live the dream. I stay up late, I sleep when I want. I dream when I live. I eat popsicles and jumped in the ocean for the very first time just last week. And when was the last time you did that, motherfucker? Exactly.

4. I am good at most things. And that’s just the truth.

So, I may or may not like you (I probably like you), and you may or may not like you (let’s get married then?), but there is definitely one thing we can agree on — and that is that this blog really probably only matters to me. Oh and also that I am awesome, as stated above.

Which begs the question: how did this all happen for me? Was it my amazing parents (who were born on the exact same day, by the way)? Or the tiny farm town of five thousand neutered souls in which I grew up? Or the multitude of little adopted children that still live in the house I grew up in? Or maybe it’s the Capricorn traits of which I have none?

It is probably all of those plus other things I can’t remember. And I probably don’t care about those things either, because in the end, I don’t really care about the equation that formed the solution (I can’t even do longhand division), and there is no calculator for solving life, that I know of.

And besides, this is all just a self-absorbed way for me to write witty banter that makes me laugh at you for laughing at it.

I wish I was a fat person because I like food.

But, typical of the unfairness that is this world we live in, I was born with an unfairly overactive cracked-out metabolism and an appetite that can only stomach a pound’s worth of food in one sitting (at the very most — even in the most extreme conditions). My plight is real, my fortune unfortunate, and my body not able to eat all the food that I like. This is the dire reality that I live in, dear reader.

I have tried everything to overcome my insufferable disability, but it’s all in vain (and by vain I don’t mean my appearance but the fact that I cannot eat a 72 oz. ribeye steak without having a seizure). I have taken SSRI’s (hoping for the gloriously delightful side effect of massive weight gain), I have tried lipo-injection, I have tried laying on the couch for weeks without moving, I have even tried injecting multiple meals straight into my body through an IV. But nothing, nothing whatsoever will cure this horrible affliction. I will never be able to eat more than two plates at a buffet, or eat my family out of house and home (or even eat my family, after a shipwreck or plane crash). I will never fit the American obesity stereotype and also I will never be able to have a gastrointestinal bypass.

Yet despite living this nightmare life of average-sized portions and second-rate leftovers, I will continue to coat my face in grease and cow’s blood and butter and McDonald’s breakfast in the false hopes that one day my stomach will open up and I can eat an entire large animal smothered in gravy in one sitting.

Maybe one day.

Tonight I asked Alan what to write about (I had been thinking about Sunny Delight). To which he replied “how alan is going to get people to buy what he composes on fl studio”.

“wtf is the fl studio,” said I (because when you are talking on the internet, abbreviations such as “wtf” are absolutely necessary).

He informed me, and instead of telling you what it is I am just going to regale you with tales of my childhood.

My childhood was amazing in every way. There were times when I played in the sandbox, and there were times when I rode my bicycle down the hill in front of my house. There were times when I went sledding and times when I went swimming. Times when I drew with markers on my privates and times when I got my mouth washed out with soap. There were times when I had 3 “girlfriends” and times when I built treehouses and forts and sandcastles. I had dogs and I hated some foods (and loved others). What I am saying is that my childhood was pretty much exactly the same as every other little boy’s childhood ever. (This of course does not take into account the lives of crackbabies and retards and the abused and the poor and the ugly and the dead.)

The lesson in all of this is that remembrance is an ugly beast, but a beast that can be tamed. (For example, that time when my parents left me all alone in my house as a tiny boy while they test-drove a new car and planned their ultimate escape from me — it was just a dream, apparently.)

So remember that the good times are the AIDS of the remembrance beast. It does not want you to remember them, and when you do, it cries a little (but just a little).

But that’s good enough for me. If remembering a snowfort means I am inherently giving the mental finger to some quantum asshole guardian of the past, then I’ll just pretend my entire childhood was spent living in one.

This is a hard-knock life. And not just because ’stead of treated, we get tricked. Or because ’stead of kissed, we get kicked. 

This is a hard-knock life because God’s got some big fucking hands. And with hands that big, I imagine you can knock pretty hard. Hell, why not knock the whole world on its ass and watch it get back up again. Just to watch the world (itself some kind of symbolic Rocky Balboa) punch that invisible infallibility with hopeless left hooks and useless undercuts — each time getting knocked right back down (and it’ll get up again, he’s never gonna keep it down).

Because life hits harder than anyone. And God damn well surely better be able to hit even harder than that. 

So, how do you take such a beating, besides stuffing your veins with HGH and snorting pure adrenaline while freebasing cocaine? Well, if you know that, you know the meaning of life and be prepared because you are going to get a beatdown for that knowledge from a lot of people and several highly evolved animal species and maybe some deities too. 

The answer may not be clear, but there are several steps you can take to avoid a lifetime littered with beatings and years spent on life’s injury report. 

1. Be Happy. You know those homo smiley face pins? Pretend that is your real face. But don’t actually make your face look like that, though, because you will undoubtedly get your ass kicked. 

2. Learn how to take a beating. Beat yourself, if you have to. Because as discussed above, beatings are the main aspect of life. Be it from God, life, people or animals: you will take a beating in some form or another. Consistently. 

3. Have a favorite animal, so that whenever you see it in the zoo or in real life or if it is attacking you in your house, you can say “awww I love those things”. Mine is a zebra. — because, hey, look at those adorable black and white stripes! (I would still eat one, though. Just because you like something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t want to eat it as well.) 

4. Prepare a death date. It is coming for you. Sooner than you think, most likely.