Shake Up

I cleaned my bedroom today, which is not an extraordinary event worth writing about for most people. Only for me it happens bi annually at best, and never at worst. It's not that I'm too busy or anything, in fact for the most part I have absolutely nothing going on in my life. But for some reason I choose to live in filth for six months at a time. I am always amazed at the sheer amount of crap that I can accumulate in such a short span of time. It consists mostly of empty coke cans, and receipts for crap I didn't need to buy in the first place. But also I usually find a stack of notes that I write to myself in the middle of the night. For some reason I get most of greatest ideas while I'm asleep. Or at least what I think are great ideas at four in the morning. These notes usually turn out to be not so legible at best, and just doodles of what appears to be two stick figures having sex at a German carnival at the worst. These notes cover my night stand, and spill out on to the floor. They only contain stupid little things that in my sleeping state I think are critical to have down on paper. Whether it be jokes that I think are funny, or song lyrics, or ideas for a blog. Tonight, I found a note haphazardly written on the back of an old photograph that simply read: "Red headed lesbian goat farmer in Bogota, New Jersey" Apparently I believed at one time that this was relevant information.

So I guess that good news is that I can finally make my way to my bed without tripping over nineteen books in my way. The other thing I want to talk about is what I mentioned earlier that I have absolutely nothing going on in my life right now. I like to have a project, I like to have something to do at all times. I like to keep going, going, going when possible. I am my happiest when I'm busy, when there are people to see, and places to go. I can't understand why my appointment book is not filled to it's fullest extent. It makes no sense to me, I am amazing to be around. In fact I'd go as far to say that I'm the most amazing person I've ever met. And if I was another person and happened to meet myself I would do everything in my power to spend as much time with me as possible. I guess I'm just upset that I haven't been able to do anything productive as of late. In fact I'd go as far to say as the only productive thing I've done in the past month is to take a dump. And that's not even so much productive as it is filling up the sewers and polluting the ground water of Louisiana.

I guess what I'm saying is I need to meet that red headed lesbian goat farmer. I need to meet anyone, and everyone that brings some fun back to my life. I need a shake up. Yes I do.

It's Begining To Look Alot Like...

I just found this picture while doing a Christmas project for my parents. I'd like to say that I was incontestably adorable. I look really happy, but for all I know I might have been molested by the mall Santa minutes after this picture was taken. I really don't remember, so I couldn't say for sure. I'd also like to say that if anyone could find me that exact same shirt in my current size I'd greatly appreciate it.

All That Glitters

There's not a whole lot of things not to enjoy about this time of the year. Although most people redundantly refer to it as "their favorite time of the year" as if anyone out there really hates Christmas. I don't see how they could, really. This time is so special and not just because of the crowds and the forced merriment happening all around us. There's just something good in the air around this time, and it stings with a certain crispness that you won't find in July. People who sit in their homes day after day only thinking of themselves are suddenly filling their buggies and emptying their wallets for their loved ones. I swear even music sounds better during December whether it be the gentle tones of "Silent Night" even the amazing new Britney Spears album "Circus" sounds better this close to Christmas (Side Bar: Buy Yours Today!)

Sadly, I think I have finally found something to dislike about this season, and that would be glitter. It's barely big enough to see with the naked eye, but it is big enough to fuck up my entire day. I find it everywhere, on everything I own. It's on my shoe laces, and on my favorite wool peacoat. But that's only because everyone is insisting to add it to everything they touch this time of year. It truly is everywhere, on everything I see. It's on ornaments, and greeting cards, snow globes, and ceramic angels, garland, and wreaths. It is on everything.

It is almost as if the Christmas decoration creators of the world have begun to think the same way about glitter as most American chain restaurants think of chocolate. Which is: "If chocolate is good, then wouldn't more chocolate be better?" And then they answer themselves with: "Why don't we only serve deserts with approximately ninety seven different layers of chocolate? We can have a chocolate fudge cake, layered with chocolate icing, and topped with chocolate gannache! We could top it with chocolate ice cream, and pieces of chocolate candy! We could follow that up with chocolate whipped cream, and chocolate sauce with chocolate sprinkles! And then we'll serve it on a plate with ornate drippings of chocolate sauce!" You can almost see fat Americans everywhere sink to their knees and start thanking God at this proclamation.

But, it is perfect thinking, if you stop and consider it for a moment. We are a glutinous people. If we like something, we want as much of it as possible. We want it in as many different ways as we can have it. We want it all at the same time and please be quick about it. This kind of thinking only hurts those who just wish for a simple bowl of vanilla ice cream, or God forbid something with fruit in it. It is not enough to just want something simple anymore, it has to be adorned to the maximum extent. It has to be bigger, and better than what the people next door have. Whether that be with a fifteen foot high chocolate monstrosity that some waiter in a Chili's in Bogota, New Jersey is limping under the weight of. Or it could be the subtle way that neighbors silently compete over who has the most ornate Christmas decorations in their front yard. Which is all fun and games until someone brings out the airport landing strip like strobe lights to display their life size collection of wooden cartoon characters painted in their holiday finery. I'm speaking from experience as such a rivalry has broken out not two houses down from mine.

Apparently your house is not festive enough this holiday season unless every single ornament and yuletide trinket is covered with shiny fragments of metal. I cannot stand near enough to a decorated Christmas tree to admire it without coming away with it all over my face, and hands. And when I do purposefully touch something with glitter on it, I can almost see the glitter rise in a cloud above the object in question just in the wake of the gentle pads of your fingertips. I accidentally inhale it, and for the next month I am coughing and sneezing out the shiny pieces. I cannot walk down the Christmas aisle at Walmart or the stork I work in without looking like I just came from a strip club and was boobie slapped in the face by a coked out Russian stripper by the name of Charisma wearing a glitter and sequin studded g string.

I swear to God that yesterday I saw glitter in my pee. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but I swear that's what I saw. So I guess what I'm saying is that it all has to stop. The constant war of outdoing one another, the constant slathering on of our favorite things on every thing we see. Not everything is better with chocolate shavings, or red and gold glitter. Not everything can be fixed that easily, and that's something we need to learn. It really came to a head when I woke up this morning fresh from a horrible dream I had the night before in which I somehow got a piece of it in my eye during a parade gone horribly wrong. I then had to succumb to an experimental glitterectomy in which I lost my sight. I remember the feeling of relief I had when I woke up realizing that I still had the ability to see my surroundings. I felt so lucky, and fulfilled. Then I accidentally passed to closely to our Christmas Tree on my way to the kitchen and my whole fucking day was ruined and I think you know why.

Forture teller says maybe you won't go to hell

He sounds so sure of himself. He sounds like he knows what he's talking about, and he makes me want to take his words for truth. He's in a place that is much different then than the place I find myself in on a day to day basis. He has his entire life planned out for him. He knows what he'll do, and he knows who he'll be with when he does it. He knows where he'll be and, who he wants to be. I feel completely different about the future. I feel like I have a million ideas, and a million passions, and none of the resources or knowledge to do anything with any of them. I feel like the seeds of a dandelion when you blow gently on it's petals. I'll just float in the wind until I land. And maybe I'll end up somewhere that I can flourish and finally become what I was meant to be. Or maybe I'll end up in a pile of scurrying ants (which I'm allergic to). Or maybe I'll land on someones driveway, amongst the steel framed cars and skid marks. I don't think that dandelions can grow through cement but maybe I'll be the first.

I just feel like a few years ago I had everything, and then in a matter of unconnected moments I lost it all. It's like I went to a fortune teller and there was a crack in her crystal ball. And she had no idea what to say to me about a life marred with cracks in the fragile glass surface of my life. And that scares me, but it also thrills me. I like not knowing, even though not knowing is what keeps me not sleeping. But I guess what I'm saying is that he might have it all figured out, and maybe I don't. But I guess I'm not scared at all, of the cracks in the crystal ball.

Nothing

Remember those times when I was full of funny anecdotes and maudlin tales? This is not one of those times. I am so absolutely empty in life right now that I have absolutely nothing to talk about. So sorry for the lack of updates.

Is There A Light At The End of This Road?

Yesterday I was restless as soon as I woke up. Sometimes I can't help myself, I like to be running, running, running, all of the time. No one was home, so I wouldn't have my sister as my partner in crime. It was too early for any of my regular cohorts to be awake. I had money that was burning a hole in my pocket, and a thirst to buy some books. I looked up a used book store in a small city just fifteen minutes away from my house. I grabbed my dad's TomTom, and was out the door. I got there with no problems surprisingly since I am notoriously bad about driving on interstates, and getting lost at every chance I get.

But I did get to the Second Hand Prose Book Shop. Sadly, the building did not offer what I thought was promised. Instead of pages and pages of exciting books, books that would make me laugh out loud, books that would teach me something about life, or love, or both. Instead it offered romance novels as far as the eye could see. Clearly, there was a problem here that I did not expect. But since I drove the twenty miles out, I was going to buy a book whether or not it was one I actually wanted. I found a battered copy of "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger sitting lonely on the only bookshelf that did not have anything with a muscled man with an open and billowing shirt on the cover. I paid the three dollars for it, and took it home.

On my way home however I ran into a snag. I misunderstood the GPS, and took a wrong on ramp and ended somewhere thirty minutes away from home before i noticed anything was wrong. My phone was dead, so I couldn't call for help. All I could do was freak out, and worry. I drove, and drove, and drove not knowing where I was or where I would end up. The TomTom was worthless at this point. There were no road signs, just miles and miles of empty highway. I don't think I've ever been so scared. I never realized how scary being lost actually is. Not knowing where you'll end up, or whether or not you'll ever make it back home. It's a frightening thought. You start to think of the people you left behind, the faces you may never see again. You could get in a wreck, and die forty miles from home and no one might ever know what happened to you. You might end up somewhere strange and not have enough money to get home. Your name becomes foreign to your loved ones, and you walk around a strange place as just another nameless face. You can fade into obscurity in a minute once you're lost.

But then I started to like the idea of getting lost. The idea that you could start over anywhere else. You could pick a new name for yourself, a new identity, even a new accent. Anything is possible when no one knows who you are. And something about that appeals to me. I haven't always been happy with the way my life is turning out, not exactly how I always thought that it would. I always thought there would be something more. Maybe it a person that's missing from my life that I haven't met yet. Maybe it's a career, or a promise for the future. Maybe it's some sense of accomplishment that I have yet to achieve. I don't know what it is exactly but maybe I could find it somewhere new. And I gave it a serious thought for a moment. I really did. Then I came to my senses and took the nearest exit and stopped to ask for directions. I guess I realized that I could live anywhere, but I can only be at home in one place. And that place is here.

We're In The City of Wonder

I spent Halloween with the kind of friend that I don't spend enough time with. The kind of friend that every few months or so I take off the shelf, dust her off and have an amazing night with. We went to a local haunted house where all of the proceeds were donated to charity. It takes a special kind of friend to go to an event that has the chance to be even slightly frightening with me. I am the biggest pussy in the entire world. Although I'd like to say that means that I'm just a six foot tall vagina walking around with a hulking clitoris flapping in the wind, but sadly that's not exactly what I mean.

I mean that I am the archetype for easily frightened people. I am the perfect audience for scary movies, because I gasp in all the expected places. When the foreboding music cues up, I hold my legs close to my body. I hide my eyes, and scream. I can't help it this is just the way I was wired to be I guess. I think I get it from my mother, who freaks out at sudden movements and ordinary noises. But anyway, I am not the kind of person you want to go with when things have the opportunity to be scary. But Nicole was up to the challenge for that and I commend her. She didn't flinch once as twenty somethings dressed as zombies attacked from across the room. She did not push me aside when I grabbed for her hand in the dark. She did not yell at me, when I stepped on her feet trying desperately to get away from the man with the chainsaw standing in the corner. She took it like a professional, and I commend her for that one. It's not easy being my friend sometimes, but I'm always willing to buy you a cherry limeade from Sonic so I would say I'm probably worth it in the long run.

After that we drove out of town, further into this part of the state than I'd ever been before. It was the kind of place where grass grows all the way up to the bottoms of houses on cinder blocks. The kind of place where coyotes roam free, and their howls fill the night. We go tout of the car, on a deserted, dusty road and looked into the sky. I wish I could say that I was a smaller town where you could see the stars as perfectly as you could there. I've never seen so many of them all at once. And right then I knew that the zombies could attack, bring them on. As long as I ot one last good look at those stars I'd be ready to join them.

I have no patience for illness

Remember how a few days ago I mentioned that I had a fever? Yeah, well that's not getting any better truth be told. For the past few days I've been surviving off of Theraflu and hope. I've been reading a lot. If you're looking for something amazing to read, try these which have kept me company for the past few days.

"Paper Towns" John Green
"The Book Thief" Markus Zuzak
"Let it Snow" John Green, Maureen Johnson, Lauren Myracle"
"We Thought You Would Be Prettier" Laurie Notaro

Fever In The Morning, Fever All Through The Night

I think I'm running a low grade fever right now. Which is fine, I've always liked the word fever because it reminds me of both sex and horrible things like sweating. But I love how many awesome things the word fever is associated with. You can have Scarlett Fever, or Yellow Fever, or maybe even Fuchsia Fever if anyone gets around to naming another disease after a color. Although now that I think of it, it mostly just sounds like a name for lip gloss but at least it's an alliteration so it has that going for it. You could also have hay fever, or Saturday Night Fever, you never know things might even come to a fever pitch. There are a lot of terms associated with the word as you can see.



I wish I could blame my fever on the movie I saw this morning. I wish I could say, "Oh, I wasn't feeling my best and wasn't able to resist." But sadly, none of that is true. I was just fine this morning when my friend called me and asked me to go to a movie with him. I was all for seeing "W" which I was hoping would be a good excuse to make fun of George Bush for two hours. Instead he decided that we would be seeing "High School Musical 3: Senior Year". At first I put up a bit of resistance. But then I figured I could just spend two hours whispering to him that anyone else in theater that was old enough to work a search engine had see Vanessa Hudgens vagina. That was enough to get me through purchasing the ticket at the very least. I also figured if nothing else I could count the times that Disney tried to subvert the minds of eight year old girls by showing Zac Efron's nipples (in case you were wondering the number is three.)



I'd like to say I hated it, but in reality it wasn't that bad. It was a sparkling look at what a cold and calculating company like Disney can turn high school into. I'm not exactly sure what there reference point for those four years was, but it was nothing like my experiences. I wish for once someone could make a movie about a high school experience that got close to getting it right. First of all no one dances and sings in the hallways (Well that wasn't exactly true for me, but I'm unpredictable like that.) But most importantly I wish someone would realize that the loserish kid never becomes attractive and fucks the hot girl. It never happens, ever. As far as I know it will never happen except for maybe after college when that loser makes his first million and that hot girl does him in hopes to get a free pair of new boobs. But I mean honestly who do they think they're kidding with this shit? They are setting up nine year olds everywhere for disappointment.



I've got to be honest my fever is really setting in now, I completely forgot where I was even going with this train of thought. Whatever.

The Google Searches for Dog Sex Are All Going to Point To This Post

I am not sure why no one ever told me that you should not donate blood on an empty stomach. I have heard of may food related rules, including but not limited to:

1. Never grocery shop on an empty stomach or you'll find yourself with twelve packs of Little Debbie snack cakes, and fourteen pounds of T.G.I.F. frozen quesadilla roll ups. Which of course is a satisfying diet for a crack addict but maybe not one for someone who could probably stand to lose a few nine hundred pounds like myself.
2. Always wait thirty minutes after eating before swimming. Otherwise you will more than likely sink to your death, and as you drown instead of having your life flash before your eyes all you will see is that roasted chicken leg with a side of mashed potatoes that you just consumed.
3. Never drink dairy products with seafood. I'm not sure if this one is actually true or if my parents just paraded it around as such because if you think of it, it really is an awful combination. And I'm sure when I'm a parent I'll say the same because there's no way I'm cleaning up fish sticks and 2% milk out of the new berber carpets me and the future wife just had installed last month. Actually come to think of it I doubt I'll ever serve my children fish sticks, because they are in fact disgusting.

But oddly enough no one ever mentioned the food rule that could potentially cause me bodily harm some two decades later when I go to donate blood for the second time in that last three months. No one said, Jordan make sure you eat a hearty meal beforehand or you will more than likely pass out. Actually, come to think of it my parents didn't say anything about me donating my platelets other than the fact that they think the thought of giving up your blood to someone else is horrible. I swear my mother acts as if instead of helping someone with my precious O positive I'm going to the LifeShare office to get free heroin.

But I digress no one told me of the unforeseen perils of donating without eating. So six hours later I'm still feeling nauseous, and dizzy. And in the haze of my low blood sugar I just cannot help but feel like something isn't right in my world. I feel like I'm always getting knocked down, and just as I pick myself up again someone throws a discarded banana peel from a 1920's vaudeville act under me, and I'm back on the ground. Sometimes it feels like the world is trying to show in dominance over me by humping my leg like an oversexed German Sheppard.

Actually that raises an interesting point right there. Have you ever actually seen two dogs have sex? First of all it's disgusting, but also it's hilarious. Because it's almost never two dogs of roughly the same size. No it's always this Rosie O' Donnell sized mammoth of a dog humping the ever living shit out of a Olsen twin sized one. But beyond that, the one doing the heavy thrusting usually always has the audacity to lose interest half way through and starts to look bored. You can almost see the motherfucker pantomime looking at his watch to check the time, it is ridiculous.

But that is exactly how I feel the universe has been treating me lately. So I just want the universe to know that yes, I get it. You are the alpha male, I don't need you to dry hump my leg or pee on me to mark your territory. I get it, you are in total control. you will decide if I have a bad day, or an amazing day, or if I die tomorrow. It is all up to you, and I am just a mere pawn in your bigger plan. I am simply a mere peasant trying to run amok in your playground and I'm sorry for that. I will try not to get in your way any longer. I will step aside and let you do your dirty to me as long as you can make me a promise that soon this will all stop. That one day soon I will be able to stand up once and for all and have no fear of being knocked back down again. So if you swear that eventually that will happen for me, you can get your rocks off on me as often as you like. Just promise not to do it on my favorite pair of jeans. I'd imagine dog semen is hard to get out of denim.


Editor's Note: I have no idea how I went from the rules of donating blood to talking about dog sex. So please just excuse me on that one, won't you?

A Warning

Tonight I saw the major motion picture "Blindness", not because I wanted to lose eight dollars to a film I had never heard of but because someone insisted that we see it. Let me just start by saying, that you should not waste your money. It was easily the worst movie I've ever seen. And though I usually kind of like bad movies, this was a complete exception. I hate using the obvious joke here, but I really would have preferred to be blind than to watch this again. Although that wouldn't even help, because even the soundtrack was horrible. Even the high points of most movies being violence and nudity, were bad in this movie. The five sex scenes were not in the least bit sexual, including the seven minute long blind orgy. Just utterly awful all around. So do me a favor, do not go to the theatre to see this. Do not buy it when it comes out on DVD, or bluray. Resist the urge to pick it up two years from now in the five dollar bin at Walmart where I know it will inevitably end up. Do not watch this movie with a mouse, do not watch this movie in a house. Just don't watch it okay? Okay. Thanks.

Someone owes me eight dollars.

This Will Be The Day That I Die

Why I'm a hot mess:

Yesterday I spent thirty two dollars on an abysmal lunch of sushi. This lunch was served by a guy whose house I once went to, where we discussed him passing out and cumming in his pants.

I spent the night with my sister discussing the getaway scene in "The Sound of Music", Reba Mcentire's dwindling vocal range, and the benefits of Tina Fey impersonating Sarah Palin.

I broke my ipod this morning, and am fighting with apple to get it replaced. From now on October the fourth will be referred to as the day the music died.

I miss my best friend something fierce-like. Sometimes you don't realize what a good thing you've got going on until it doesn't live across the street for nine months out of the year.

I am badly in need of a haircut. It's getting to the point that someone needs to physically restrain me and bring out the scissors as I writhe and scream protests.

Yesterday I went to Sonic, and didn't tip the not so attractive waitress a dime. Tonight I went to get a cherry limeade and tipped the very attractive waitress four dollars. I cannot believe I'm that guy.

Because I'm writing a list on why I'm a hot mess, instead of trying to do anything productive with my life. Goddamnit.

Stand Up

I like it when things are stable. I like being sure of what's going to happen day in and day out. But I like things crazy too. I like not knowing what's around the corner. I like the excitement of never knowing what will happen next. Today the House defeated a bill for a 700 billion dollar bailout for our nation's financial system. And now, even though that world is far away and disconnected from my world, I feel unstable. I feel like things might be out of balance for a while. And it scares me to think that supposedly the greatest, and most independent nation is going to let things go so unchecked. It worries me because it feels like the only good idea that George Bush has ever had in his entire residency in office has been thrown out. And this is coming from a guy who doesn't have a whole lot of great ideas. And if we can't trust our government to bail us out, or get us away from a bad situation who can we depend on?

And although this situation could lead us into a recession so deep that we end up in a depresion unseen by current generations of people, I feel like there is something more important here. Doesn't congress realize how this is affecting ME? I think they should be a little less selfish and think of me for a change. In fact I think as a nation we would be a whole lot better off if everyone just thought about my feelings for a change, Goddamnit. I will not stand for a world that doesn't think about me once in a while. I just hope that come November someone will stand up for change. That someone will stand up for what they believe in, and vote for what they think is right. I hope that someone does something right, for a change. I'm tired of living in uncertainty. But I am certain that it is time for something different.

I'm voting for Obama.


Also I was mostly kidding about America thinking of me once in a while, they should be thinking of me ALL OF THE TIME.

I Wrote This Two Years Ago (Can You Even Deal?)

I was restless, foot tapping, coffee sipping. I couldn't stop myself. I sat there with my dirty hair, and my wrinkled blue jeans. Porcelain coffee cup in my hand. It's delicate, with a blue flowered pattern along it's base. The coffee is hot, and I can feel it through the thin porcelain surface. I am restless, and am growing bored with my life. I take a sip, and it burns on the way down . I try to swallow and small tears form in the corners of my eyes either from the heat or something else that I'm trying not to think about right now. And through them I see something completely different.

A different world. A different life, in a different time. A world where well dressed people make polite conversation, whilst concealing their snide remarks. A Victorian age, when women wore petticoats and men had finely combed mustaches. A world where coffee was served every day at the same time. Where soft, buttery pastries were passed around on silver trays. The women gently fanning themselves in the Summer heat, the sunlight pouring through the windows and glinting off every surface. A slight sheen of sweat on their foreheads, their dewy skin looking less like porcelain with every unimaginably warm sip. Then men sit and talk about business, while the women talk about the men. And everyone is talking, and everyone is talking about everyone else. It's a dangerous world to live in I'd imagine. With just the wrong words spoken, reputations are ruined, fortunes are lost, families fall apart.

I feel like I'm getting farther away from it now. It's a world I don't belong in, and I know that. But it's not that much different from my own. With just a few wrong words, you can easily ruin a family. You can break the delicate bonds of friendship and trust with just a few slip ups. It doesn't take much for me at least. So I ruin my relationships like a badly worded bull in a china shop. And as I realize this, the porcelain cup falls from my hands and hits the floor. It shatters into a million little pieces. They sparkle, and glitter over the granite floors. They cling to my hands as I try to pick up the pieces. And I can't help it, and I can't change it. And I can't move to that world of polite conversation, and I can't say I'm sorry enough. Not because I don't know what to say, I've just run out of words. I have completely run out of words.

The Postarita List

I've been writing this for a while, adding something else to it every other day or so. But now I think it's done. I can't think of anything else I want to do or accomplish in my life. So, I give to you my Life List. I tried to make a list of things that weren't all that far out of reach that way if I don't do all of them, I can only blame myself.

See the Mona Lisa
Start going to church on a regular basis instead of only on holidays
Put my feet in every ocean
Spend a month in France
Attempt to relearn basic French
Adopt a child
Become a foster parent
See a Broadway musical
Meet Ms. Spears
Get into People magazine one way or another
Drink a latte from the original Starbucks
Visit a vineyard
Be the best man in someone’s wedding
Be a Godfather
Write a novel
Submit a piece to either GQ, Esquire, or Details
Have a dirty water hot dog in New York
Write a truly amazing song
Learn to play the guitar
Learn something beyond playing scales on the piano
To sing the national anthem at a sporting event, whether they want me to or not
Give a eulogy
Buy a really nice, vintage camera
Get married in a cathedral
Audition for a play
Read the Bible, no matter how much it bores me
Eventually get down to one cuss word a day, and even that in only dire circumstances.
Attend a masquerade ball
Be a chairman for a charity
Donate 10% of my salary to Aids and Cancer related charities
Donate blood on a regular basis
Finish school
Go to Mardi Gras in New Orleans
Move out of Louisiana
Go and visit Bryant at Northwestern before he moves away
Write a screenplay
Attend the Grammys
See Kathy Griffin live
Take a ballroom dancing class
Buy the perfect suit
Have a perfect Body Mass Index
Play “Dirty” by Christina Aguilera at my wedding reception
Have a daughter, name her Emma
Have a son, name him Gabriel
Have a life altering conversation with a complete stranger
Go back to Graceland, and this time take notes
Take a cooking class
Find a way to get into Pink’s cell phone
Join an adult choir when I feel like an actual adult
Do something completely irrational and out of character for once
Drink an entire bottle of champagne by myself
Have a cocktail with an old friend in an upscale bar in Manhattan
Own a loft apartment
Own a miniature Pomeranian named Brisket
Sing at someone else’s wedding
Have someone sing to me

If I accidentally happen to do one, I'll let you know.

It's Nothing But My Way

For the first time in a long time, I find myself being genuinely happy without much reason at all. And more so I find that this happiness isn't because of someone else. Maybe I'm finally starting to be happy with exactly who I am. And, I can't help but feeling that something good is coming just around the corner. And, for the first time in a long time I think that I'll be ready when it comes.

Home Sweet Lake Charles

I live in a small city. To be honest compared to the wide sprawling, concrete laden cities that most people are used to I live in a village. Compared to other places, we all live in huts and wipe our asses with tree bark. It's limiting, and sometimes stifling. I've always treated Lake Charles like the slutty stepsister I never had. She kicks you when you're down, she sleeps with your best friend. She passes out drunk under your bed and throws up in your favorite pair of shoes. But after being away for five days from EVACUATIONPALOoZA 2008, I feel differently about things. After spending so much time in a dirty city in Texas I've come to appreciate the subtle beauties in my hometown again. I've come to appreciate the balmy afternoons, and the pouring rain every twenty five minutes. I'd even go as far to say that as of right now I might be a little in love with Lake Charles. In fact, I want to open mouth kiss it with tongue. No even better, I want to take Lake Charles behind the middle school and get it pregnant. And I do mean that.

Smaller Bites

I haven't been posting here a lot lately, because I haven't had any big stories to tell. But I do find that I've had a lot of small little snippets of stupid that don't really fit into a larger portrait of idiocy. Though, I'd still like to share them with you anyway just to get you through the day.

About a week ago, I broke my glasses and instead of going to the Eye Doctor because he's approximately four hundred years old and makes me nervous when he brings his arthritic hands near my eyeballs. Instead I took the lazy route, and just went out and bought the first pair I could find that that fit my current lenses. Now I'm stuck with a pair that very closely resemble Tina Fey's circa 1999. Also a little bit of Lisa Loeb. It's not a good look let me tell you.

I've recently spent a very confusing forty five minutes of my life looking for my Grandmother's teeth. Turns out she flushed them down the toilet. And although she very much tried to persuade me to take apart the toilet to retrieve them, I had to sadly explain to her that they were now far gone into the septic system. Now they're being shit upon by a turtle in some far away ditch. This kind of made me sad.

I have spent far too much time and energy reading articles on Wikipedia. If you know me even a little you'd know that I soak up pointless information just for fun. I revel in knowing completely inane trivia about movies, and actors and singers for absolutely no reason at all. I'll pretty much read anything if it's sits still long enough. I think this may be my one and only weakness.

I've been trying to pack for the upcoming HURRICANE EVACUATIONPALOOZA 2008. And I can't bring myself to focus for more than five minutes at a time. Every time I try to find an important paper, or a photo I get lost in the years of Jordan detritus that clutter my room. For instance I found my old Nintendo system and then I had to play it for two hours. I could barely control myself. And when I'm not busy playing 1980s video games I'm finding remnants of past friendships and people long gone. I'm finally realizing that you cant' always run away from these things. You can throw away pictures, and old letters, and birthday cards and gifts but there will always be something that remains. You can never truly do away with anything or anyone. It's sadmaking.

Possible Name Change

You know that if this hurricane Gustav does butt rape the Gulf Coast like it's promising, I might have to change the name of this site to PostaGustav. Just some food for thought.

Completely Unreleated Bigfoot Post 2

Me: I don't believe in lesbians I think they're an urban myth like bigfoot or that woman who took a dog home from Mexico only to bring it home and find out it was a rat.

Him: Of course there are real lesbians. What about (name omitted) or Rosie O' Donnell? She's a real lesbian.

Me: I think you're making a better case for a bigfoot than a lesbian there.

Bigfoot Post One

Has anyone heard about this bigfoot business? Apparently three men in Georgia have found what they believe to be one. More information can be found here. Call me skeptical, and maybe it's because I've just never believed in things such as this but don't you think that they just maybe found Rumer Willis Rosie O' Donnell Larry King insert your favorite ugly celebrity here?

It's Too Late To Apologize

My life is so boring right now that I have absolutely nothing to write about. So no new drama, no new funny. Sorry.

We're Blessed and Hung Low Like Bernie Mac

Rest in Peace Bernie Mac.





Also, I know I'm going to hell for using a quote from a Christina Aguilera song as my title. Or if not hell, at the very least I'll be reincarnated as a red headed lesbian named Twizzler. And if that happens, I'll know that I earned it.

Hot Shit of the Month August 2008

Today I was thinking how long it has been since I've posted some of my favorite things, and that's a damn shame. i wouldn't want to deprive people of the things that I personally love. But since I haven't actually bought anything cool in quite some time, I'll just post a list of songs that I think personally you'll love. Think of it as a "Celebrity Playlist" on Itunes, only by me not a celebrity.

Josh Hoge_Stay Away

I don't know who this guy is, but this song is amazing. He has this guttural kind of falsetto that I would kill for. Just Play it once, and see if you can stop yourself from playing it nineteen hundred times in a row.

Lady GaGa_Just Dance

I discovered this song a few months ago, but it's just now picking up airplay. It is soon to be the song that I loved like "I Kissed A Girl" by Katy Perry before everyone started playing it, and talking about it nonstop. This is just as catchy as that one though, except with fewer lesbian references. Usually fewer lesbian references is a bad thing, but in this case I don't mind so much.

The Pipettes_Pull Shapes

I've got to be completely honest I have no fucking clue what this song is about, but I don't care. The Pipettes have this awesome retro feel to them. Whenever I listen to it, all I can imagine is a 1960's pool party, with awkward boy/girl dances around the pool and someones father grilling hot dogs on the barbecue. It's a good feeling.

The Saturdays_What Am I Gonna Do?

This is some random girl group from the U.K. I don't' really know much about them except for this song is oddly catchy to me. Check it out, and see for yourself.

Regina Spektor_Samson

I think I've probably put this song on one of my lists before but I just recently rediscovered it. It is so achingly beautiful, and soft. It makes me hurt in ways I can't explain. Gives me the same feelings that I get whenever I read "To Kill a Mockingbird" and "Looking for Alaska"

Gym Class Heroes_Cookie Jar

The best song about getting caught cheating since "It Wasn't Me" by Shaggy back in the nineties. I love hearing about people fucking around and getting caught.

Solange_I Decided

This song is by Beyonce's sister, who I believe held the title of assistant manager at Burger King before her sister pulled some strings and got her a record deal. Nonetheless, she comes off even more cocky and self assured than her older pussy slinging sister. I pretty much love it.

I will add links to download all of these as I find them.

what the fuck is up with blogger?

V is for Vallerie and Virginity

Earlier this evening I was watching "Entertainment Tonight" which for the most part is not so much about entertainment as it is about Vallerie Bertenelli gaining, and losing, and then gaining weight over and over again. Or about the day to day tribulations of Carnie Wilson. Let me digress for a moment and see if I can get a show of hands of anyone who actually gives a shit about Carnie Wilson? That's exactly what I thought.

Though tonight in between Carnie and Valleie was a heartwarming puff piece detailing Hannah Montana star Miley Cyrus singing a "Pledge of Purity" promising to remain a virgin until marriage. She then detailed how important she thought it was as a role model to young girls, to remain a virgin until marriage. Let me just take a moment to say...what? Since when is that what we've ever wanted from our Pop Stars? Am I completely mistaken in saying that we as Americans want them to pretend to be virgins but in reality be complete whores? We want them to be on the cover of Seventeen, and then a week later flash their peesh to the world. (Well maybe that's not the case for Miley seeing as how that would be considered kiddie porn.) But for the most part, that's what we've always wanted isn't it? Maybe it's just me. Forget I even said anything on the matter.

Family Interaction

Scene One
She lays on her bed, sheets wrapped in her lilac comforter. Her face is hidden though a few stands of dark brown hair peek out from the top. I hear her whimper softly, as I enter her room. She's refusing to go, she says in a muffled whisper. She refuses to do the things that they want of her. She refuses to see the people that she has tried so far to distance herself from. She doesn't care if she's doing it for someone else even if that someone else is her mother. It doesn't matter because she is too strong willed and defiant to be talked into anything that she doesn't want. She is steady, and strong but she's slowly cracking I can tell. I sit down on the bed beside her and pull the sheets back. She tells me that they lied to her, they said she'd never have to see them if that's what she wanted. They lied to her, and she can't forgive it. She can't see those people who said all of those things, ever again. She's too proud, she's too stubborn, and I know all of this. But I also know that she's just like her big brother, and she's about to break. Because we can only stay strong for a small amount of time. Eventually we're going to give in, and go out and face the things that we don't want to come within a hundred yards of. Not because we want to, not because anyone forces our hands, but because deep down we're good people. And as good people, we know it's the right thing to do. I tell her to just get up, and go get dressed so we can get it over with. She stalls for a few more minutes and eventually agrees. And as she's getting up to close the door behind me so that she can get dressed she looks me right in the eye and says "I hope you know, I'm going to be a total bitch for the rest of the day." But she didn't have to tell me, I already knew.

Scene Two
We walk into their small two story town house, a house that has seen it's fair share of shoddy repair work, and a total of sixty three ceramic statuettes in just the bottom floor alone. She moves to hug us, and we look to the floor for answers, as our hands move to our pockets. We've come because it's the right thing to do, but we're not bowing down. That's not how we do things. It never has been, we can't help ourselves. She looks awkwardly at us, and we stumble into the living room, and quickly take a seat on the sofa. He looks different than the last time we saw him four or five years ago. His face paler, his formerly large framed body, has turned frail looking. We are all seated, the TV is blaring in the foreground. Apparently Chevy Chase is trying to take his family on a vacation, and hilarity is ensuing. I can't take it all in. The ceramic angels, and the his pale face, and most of all Chevy Chase. I can't deal with it all at once, I could probably handle it all separately but not at the same time. It is too much, and yet it is so little. He is sick, and that's the only reason we came, and that makes me sad even though I know the reasoning behind it. She's sick too, but in a completely different way. A manipulative, and self serving kind of way. The kind of way that you never expect a grandmother to be. But that's the hand we were dealt. It's not without it's flaws, but they live their lives and we live ours. We go along our own separate ways every single day of our lives. And we only stop by when someone is dying. And he is dying, much like the fragile relationship between us died a few years ago. It suddenly strikes me between the awkward conversation, how little I care. I really don't care if he's sick. And it makes me a bad person, I know. But I really don't, it means so little to me that I am surprised. I am surprised that I could ever turn my back on someone, but I have, and I did. And, maybe I'm sick too.

Scene Three
We're a different kind of family now, the kind that we choose to be around. The kind that let me play with their two year old daughter, and their Pitt Bull puppy. And insist that I take home some movies to watch. The kind that tell me about the time they walked into our aunt's house and saw not only her snatch but also her vibrator. The kind of family who doesn't judge me for falling off my chair from laughing when they told me that last part. The kind of family that asks me for a cigarette and just sits outside with me while we smoke. The kind who talks about nothing, and everything at the same time. Between filing for bankruptcy and how all of us are guilty of watching Hannah Montana. And it's good to know that not all family members are basically just strangers that you happen to be related. Some family members are the kind of people that you'd probably want to be friends with anyway if they were just a bunch of randoms. And that's comforting. I think I'll go watch those movies now.

Frivolous

I've been trying to blog for the past few days and can't think of anything to say at all. So instead I'm going to fill this post with meaningless vamping words to fill time and to distract you from my unfunny. Knick-Knack! Lampshade! HullaBalloo! Soft Shell Crab! Flim Flam! Sophia Petrillo! Dooh Dah Parade!

I Love Gifts

My dad bought me a new digital camera today because mine broke the other way on my way to the Lafayette Zoo. Also, just in case you were ever planning on visiting the Lafayette Zoo, save your eight dollars and don't. They have exactly half of a giraffe and a mosquito. And, I'm pretty sure that mosquito gave me the west nile virus, so all in all not worth it. Anyways about the digital camera, it's red and shiny which are two of my favorite attributes of new electronics. My dad said he bought it because it was on sale but I like to think he's trying to make up for the time in the tenth grade when he called me a fatass. Either way, I'd let him call me fat again if I could score a new laptop.

Fancy May Have Been Her Name

I think I met my soul mate today. Well I didn't so much meet her as I did happen to stop at a red light right next to her. I could tell that we were meant to be together because she was smoking a cigarette, and singing along with the radio. The radio was playing "Fancy" by Reba Mcentire which clearly means that we were MADE FOR EACH OTHER. And all of this time, I thought I was the only person who did that.

Barry Manilow Lyrics Go Here

By some weird twist of reality I had my hair cut not once, but twice today. As you probably know I have a lot of hair issues as stated previously here, here, oh and also here. Most people would be satisfied with just getting it done once, oh but not me. I have to go balls out at all times apparently. Let me start you off with the story then, shall I?

I have been getting my hair cut at the exact same place since I was five years old. Apparently when I was that age the only person who could get me to sit still long enough to cut my hair was a particular woman at this particular establishment. I say woman, because I'm not exactly sure of the proper term for someone who cuts hair for a living. I could say 'hair cutter' since that is essentially their job but that doesn't seem nearly regal enough. And I can't stand the word 'cosmetician' because for some reason it conjures up images of a fussy old lady helping a drag queen getting ready for her big show. You know, hands filled with q tips, and glitter eye shadow, and duct tape to help him tuck it in. And that really doesn't do it for me, at all. I also don't like the word beautician because I have never, nor will I ever 'get my hair done' it's just a cut let's not glorify it. No one comes out of the salon looking more beautiful. They just come out looking worse for wear, and usually covered in their own hair. Let's not turn it into something that it's not okay? But anyways I digress.

I veered from the normal plan of going to my normal place because I'm adventurous as long as there's no possibility of any risk of loss of blood, vision, or any Phil Collins playing inside of the establishment. I think those are reasonable rules to have. So I go to the mall today, and decide to get a trim. I don't have an appointment, but they say they can take me anyways. As I detail to the woman exactly what I want because I am very particular she nods like she's heard it all before. Her own hair has been dyed so many times the ends are frayed. What's evens hocking is that her eyebrows are dyed the exact shade as her highlights. Not a shade darker, nor lighter but the exact same color. I swear it looks as if they have streaks in them too. It's very distracting. So I sit in the chair, and she informs me that her name is Mandy. I don't know why she even bothers, I highly doubt I'll be needing her name throughout the course of the procedure. Although for some reason, I trusted Mandy. If she did that much experimenting on her own hair I was surely in good hands. She was experienced I could tell. Who knows, me and Mandy might have even become great friends after this meeting. I could just tell that my follicles were in such good care, that we would clearly have a lot to talk about afterwards at Starbucks over lattes and cigarettes.

She begins to pantomime cutting my hair behind my head. Very rarely do I actually feel scissors making any contact with any of my actual hair. After about five minutes of this very precise miming she takes off my apron, puts away her scissors and informs me that she has an appointment and that my total is twenty five dollars. At this point my glasses are off and I can't see anything. I reach into my wallet and pull out the appropriate amount of currency. I pay her, and leave in a hurry. I walk to my car, and look in the mirror and find myself looking back the exact way I was before my trip to the mall. It looked as if my hair hadn't even been touched. At this point my love affair with Mandy was over. I trusted you Mandy, and you did this to me? How dare you, after all I had invested in our relationship? It was very disheartening, especially since I tipped the bitch ten dollars. This is what I get for being adventurous, and nice. I get fucked almost every time. So after attempting to do something new, I ended up going back to that old gallery of hair cutting and pay a cheap ten dollars to get what was promised to me in the first place.

So the moral of our story is never try anything new, you will eventually end up to regret it. Also, never trust anyone by the name of Mandy.

The World Is Not So Magical Afterall

So I'm back from vacation. I know the entirety of the Internet is rejoicing and throwing 'welcome back' parties as we speak. Please stop, I don't deserve all of that. And at the very least if you're going to throw them, please invite me and also make sure to serve chicken wings I've been jonesin' for some real badlike. I have alot of things to tell you of course. For some reason when I have days, and days to write and easy access to a computer I can't think of anything to say at all. And then as soon as I leave that convenience I can't turn around without coming up with something else. I guess inspiration is funny like that. Posts are coming, please be patient.

Magical World

I just wanted to tell you that I am leaving for vacation starting tomorrow for Disney World. I probably won't have a very great time, so be expecting lots of drama and bullshit when I get back.

Exaggeration

I had a horrible morning in case you were wondering. It started off with absolutely no sleep, and by the end of it I was covered in sweat, grape juice and dirty rain water. Also, I have a bladder infection and my kidneys have stopped functioning. I have carpal tunnel syndrome, and my wife is leaving me. I owe nine thousand dollars in back taxes and child support. My landlord is kicking me out for not paying my rent for the last six months, and I don't know where my next meal is coming from. I don't know how much of that is actually true, but I believe it. So, I guess that's all that matters right?

On Summer

I love Summer, and not for the cliche reasons that most everyone does. I don't like the beach, and I hate wearing bathing suits, and shorts. I don't want to tan, or play volleyball in the sand. But I love Summer for a million different reasons. The way it makes me feel is completely different than how I feel for the other three seasons of the year. I am my favorite self during the summer. Full of hope, and enthusiasm for the unexpected, for the tiny amazing moments that happen unexpectedly on a hot summer night in Louisiana. Those conversations between two friends that go beyond boundaries that have never been crossed before. Those moments, when you don't care about what tomorrow might bring, because we're living in the here and now of this moment, in this night, of this summer. I get restless in the summer, my excitement for the world bubbling right underneath the surface of my skin. I'm reckless in the summer doing things I know that I shouldn't, but it doesn't matter. It's Summer, so I have that excuse to back me up.

Back It Up

I was in a small wreck a few weeks ago after backing out of my friend's driveway. I was in reverse and as I got into the middle of the road about to put it in drive I hear the sounds of screeching brakes. My heart froze because firstly my insurance rates just went down from the first wreck I was in. Secondly because I was going to have to call my father and explain to him why I was backing out of this particular friend's driveway in the first place as he doesn't want me to have any sort of contact with him at all.

But then suddenly the noise stopped and his car barely nudged the back of mine. I barely even felt it, there certainly wasn't any noise. I calmly pull back into the driveway, and open my door to see if everyone is okay. But before I can even try to assess the damages, the other driver stops in the middle of the road, flings himself out of his truck and slams the door behind him. All of a sudden there is an explosion of redneck swearing. A fiftyish man in overalls and a buck ass white t-shirt, with the filthiest mouth I've ever encountered is all up in my face in a hot minute. As I fling apologies out of my mouth, he counters everyone with a concise "motherfucker".

And as the never ending parade of dirty words come from his mouth I think to myself when did it become okay for complete strangers to cuss each other out? I cuss on a secondly basis, I have one of the dirtiest mouths I've ever encountered, and yet I would never cuss in front of someone I wasn't familiar with. I don't cuss in front of children, or adults that I'm not familiar with only my peers. So why is okay for him to do it? Is it an effort in intimidation? Is it because I'm younger and infinitely better dressed than he is? (Did I mention the overalls, because they were very denim like and overallish in their appearance) What is it? I mean, neither of our cars were damaged, it was a silly little mistake that could happen to anyone. And I'm just anyone, and so is he so why is he making such a big deal out of a little thing?

And before I can take a second breath, he's out of my face, and back in his car. And shaking, trying to light a much needed stress relieving cigarette Id rive off and I wonder if it even happened. So in case he, or any of his relatives, ever come across this blog and remember the incident I want you to have something I think you would enjoy...herpes.

I'll Try

Have you ever had so many ideas that you couldn't possibly express them all at once? That's pretty much what is going on right now. Sorry for the lack 'o' updates, bitches.

Say Your Lines But Do You Feel Them?

Yesterday I was thinking about how big life is, and how small it is at the same time. You go around every day imagining that you're the most important person in the world. That you, and the people around you, and the people you interact with, and love everyday are the only people in the world who matter. And hundreds and thousands of other people just pass you by living their own lives that pale in significance compared to your own. When in reality those people feel the same way when you happen to pass through their lives. No one is more important than anyone else. No one has a better life, or a bigger existence. We are all players in some giant production of some lost Shakespearean tragedy. The beauty of it is that we all get to write it ourselves. Just a few words every day. Babies are born, and people die and it is all typed down in some cosmic word processor. So even the biggest upsets, the biggest tragedies, the best laughs you've had all week don't really matter all that much in the greater scheme of things. We just have to try to play our parts to the best of our abilities. And when we break character is when the shit hits the fans. So we go about reading from the script that we're making up in our heads, and try not to get fired and recast. It really is a tragedy.

Kind of

I'm the kind of person who would rather read something hilarious (see Chelsea Handler's memoir "Hello Vodka, It's Me Chelsea" than see something hilarious on youtube.

I'm the kind of person who will more than likely lie awake tonight thinking about how Barrack Obama might very well end up being the ruler of the free world.

I'm the kind of person who is going to feel sad about the fact that I may not be able to use the phrase "I'm hot for Hillary" in reference to myself any longer after this week.

I'm the kind of person who will more thank likely lie awake tomorrow night wondering what joys the next day of my birthday will bring me.

I'm the kind of person who builds things up in his head, only to be disappointed for the most part.

I'm the kind of person who writes stupid lists like this.

I'm the kind of person that you want to meet.

A Little Ugly

Don't you hate the new header? Yeah, me too. I was at first trying to go for something SUPER COOL, to celebrate the birth of our saviour Jordan M. Gribble. But instead I got lazy and then just pushed out that piece of shit. You're welcome. No, really.

Are You Walking That Dog, Is That Dog Walking You?

Although all the dreams I had in my youth point to the contrary, I don't think that I could ever be a celebrity. Sure, I could deal with the constant day to day activities. The fans, the flashing lights, the screaming crowds. All of that I think that I would kind of like. The thing that I almost know that I couldn't deal with is the questions. I hate being asked questions about myself. The words fall from your lips, and I start to squirm. My brain starts to itch, an itch that I can't scratch and even when I try it feels like my mind is falling out of my ears and onto the floor beneath us.

I hate being asked anything that has to do with my personal life. I am a private person for the most part. I think that even if you're not a celebrity people can really be too interested in what your life is like. And I'm not about that. I can be completely open with some people, the people I let far enough into my inner circle. I went through some things a few years ago that made me completely wary of who I tell things to. So though I used to be completely open with my secrets, and my personal issues, I now keep them to myself for the most part. Oh, and sometimes I post them on here, but no one I really KNOW in real life reads this shit anyways. And it makes me sad that I can't always trust people the way that I used to be able to. So now I tell people half of the truth, and leave the rest open for discussion. So anyways, where was I? Oh yes, I don't like personal questions. So, don't ever ask me any okay? Okay.

I'm trying to take the surprise out of it.

My birthday is only two and a half weeks away and already people are asking me what it is that I want for the glorious occasion. I have compiled a list in case you're stumped. the items on it range from the mundane and ordinary to my greatest fantasies. You pick which you think would make me the happiest.

1.) For someone to buy me the domain for Postarita for an entire year.

2.) For someone to teach me how to make an amazing website after they buy me that domain, because I have no idea.

3.)This Barnum & Bailey vintage circus art print

4.) For someone to rent out a classy bar in my honor. It would be a theme party of course (as are all great parties) the glamorous forties. We would all sip on Manhattans and eat canapes. Then someone would hire an Elton John impersonator (or the real Elton John if you're really good) to sing me "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" and "Philadelphia Freedom"

5. If you can't find or afford an Elton John impersonator then you could always swing for midget Britney Spears one.

6.) For someone to paint my room this color for me which you can purchase here.

7.) For everyone who comes into contact with me on the blessed day, to sing me happy birthday. Did I ever tell you the story of my eighteenth birthday where I had a perfectly wonderful day. And as I was on my way home driving over the bridge I realized at midnight that no one had sung me happy birthday all day long. So I sang it to myself for ten miles, over ,and over, and over, again. No I never told you that story? Well I totally should sometime.

8.) For someone to make me a kickass mix cd full of songs that I love, and songs that I don't know yet but will love eventually.

9.) For Katy Perry to come to my birthday party. I think she'd be a good time.

10.) For someone to take me back to Graceland.

11.) This RCA Small Wonder Video Camera.

12.) An Andy Warhol inspired art print of myself.

Build Your Wall With Just One Brick at a Time

I have had some crazy kind of writers inspiration lately paired with some crazy writers block. So right now I have about fifteen half written posts (all of which are amazing if I say so myself), and I don't know how to finish any of them.

So I guess that's something to look forward to.

Wanted

I need more guy friends. Sometimes I feel like my entire friendship scape is filled with girls and gay guys. Which is fine, because I love them all. But sometimes there's just certain things that you can't talk about to either one of those species. So I'm holding a casting call for a new guy friend. What's that? You might know someone who would be interested? Let me give you the qualifications he would need.

Must be fatter than me, in order to make me look like a sex god in comparison.
Must have a neck tattoo of the name Charlotte.
Must be named something worse than Jordan, like Melvin or Theodore.
Must be willing to let me call him "Bitch Tits" if and when I please.
Must have a rocking set of bitch tits.
Must be willing to ride bitch when he rides with me, because we all know that Kelly Clarkson always sits up front. (Oh you didn't know about me and Kelly Clarkson, did you? I'll fill you in soon, I promise.)
Must be completely single, I am not competing for his time with some buck girlfriend of his.
Must be able to handle his liquor well, lest I get drunk and need a ride home.
Must never call or text me when he knows I'm with someone more awesome.
Must be willing to read the books, and see the movies of my choice that I'm too lazy/busy to read/watch myself and tell me all the important plot points so that I don't feel out of the loop when Bryant tries to bring them up.

So yeah, I think thats it. If you or someone you know is interested please send a headshot and resume along with a taped monologue via youtube link to postarita@gmail.com. K, thanks.

Stupid or Not?

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Jordan Gribble: A History Ages One Through Five

I had a frightening thought the other day, that in less than a months time I will be turning twenty two years old. I know it's not a milestone number to most, but for me it's particularly daunting. Twenty one has almost already flashed by without nearly enough gambling or drunken stumbling. Eighteen feels like a lifetime ago, days when I was just newly legal and coming to terms with who I was. I no longer have the fresh throes of youth to cling to. High school is now a distant memory, and bigger things like mortgages and school zones for my future children loom in the horizon.

I am now to old to ever be a kid star, or a child prodigy, or even star in kiddie porn; not that I had even considered the last one, but it would be nice to still have the option I guess. I am now five years away from being too old to try out for American Idol. But I also only have thirteen years to go until I am eligible to run for President of the United States of America. So I guess, some good things could come from it, maybe. I can no longer possibly pass for someone who's underage at this point, which in itself is sad making. Although to be fair, I'll still probably be id'ed every time I buy cigarettes, but I digress. It's sad to think that my next milestone birthday is eight years away at thirty. God, if I'm this upset at turning twenty two, imagine how I'll be at thirty? I don't even want to think about it right now.

But all of this is besides the point, since I only have a month left of being in my mind a juvenile, I would like to take a few posts to look back on the last twenty one years of AMAZING. To see how far I've come, or maybe just to try to figure out where it all went wrong. So I present to you; "Jordan Gribble: A History"



Here I am at the age of one, in someones discolored recliner. I don't know who's great idea it was to dress me in overalls, nonetheless overalls with a tugboat on them, but I'd like to tell them what an awful idea it was. I think that possibly in this picture that I am either visualizing my future and laughing because it's so bad. Or possibly I'm taking a big shit, and laughing because it's only going to discolor that horrible chair even further.






Here I am at three I think. I like how curiously big pimping I am on this tricycle. I would hazard a guess to say that I was one hundred percent a bigger pimp at three than I will more than likely ever be for the rest of my adult life. I would even hazard a guess to say that now Jay Z has retired from the pimping game, and married Beyonce that I should clearly take his place. I'm sure my parents have saved those awful sunglasses (along with millions of other relics from my youth that I would rather forget) I'm sure I could dust them off, and start slinging drugs, and land me some hot Beyonce-like pussy. Or possibly not, actually definitely not. But whatever, it sounded pretty good didn't it?



This is like my favorite fucking picture of me in the entire world. I'm almost positive that I am doing a really amazing Reba Mcentire impersonation as I did very often at this age. Actually it's something I still do with more frequency than I'd probably like to admit to myself and the Internet. I also love how in the general progression of these photographs that you can tell that I have had the exact same haircut for nearly twenty years of my life. That's two entire decades if you need me to spell it out for you slow ones.




When I got my first pair of glasses in kindergarten my parents completely ignored the "LESS IS MORE" credo, and decided instead to get me the largest, pair of mother fucking glasses in the state of Louisiana. And to top it all off, they bought them in red. Did my parents try to sign me up for future humiliation or something? I swear to Jesus sometimes I must have been adopted. Surely no one who actually loved their own flesh and blood would put them in something as hideous as all of that mess. I have one good memory about those awful glasses however. I remember putting them on for the first time, and for the first time seeing leaves on trees. Never once before seeing anything but a large green and brown blur. Now I saw the distinction, and I would never be blind again from that moment. And it felt good to know that. It still feels good.
Oh and I also just noticed the paisley shirt, I would talk about it but then I would just end up wasting another paragraph of your time. But I mean what could I possibly say about paisley that hasn't already been said by Joan Rivers or those Queer Eye for the Straight Guys? Exactly, it's all been done before.



Stay tuned next week for ages six through ten, where I inevitably have even bigger glasses and my head becomes of an even more abnormal shape than before. Also some horrible wardrobe choices from my parents. Giddy with excitement? Yeah, me too.

A Weekend of Dramatic Tension

Scene One
I was sent to Wal-Mart today to obtain five gallons of industrial strength bleach, I don't know why and I don't ask. Sometimes it's better not to know the smaller details. He also wanted antifreeze, maybe he's secretly making me buy the ingredients so that he can poison me? So really it will look like I bought the items that brought along my own death? Probably not, but I have an overactive imagination I always have and I always will. The store is crowded, filled with the kind of people that I would never want to converse with in real life. Wide eyed, and sweaty, grubbing, and greedy looking for the very best price on their Little Debbie snack cakes. Children are screaming, and mothers are screaming, and fathers are wondering how it is that they were dragged off the couch and brought to this hell. I move my buggy up and down these crowded aisles, non stop, full speed not slowing down for anyone. I was on a mission and I'm not here to move out of the way so that you can grab for that last loaf of whole grain wheat bread. I don't care if it's better for you, I don't care if your doctor says that you need the fiber for your digestion. I just don't care. I want to get my five gallons of bleach and go sit my ass at home.

And when I finally do procure those five gallons of bleach, and that antifreeze I make my way to the checkout lines. Only to discover the worst sight I could have possibly imagined. It's bedlam, like the day after Thanksgiving has hit in the beginning of May. The screaming of children has only intensified as they start grabbing candy bars and tabloid magazines with their filthy hands off the news racks. At this exact moment I swear I can feel my sperm shrivel up and die, never wanting to make such a mistake. (I do apologize that I said the word sperm, but it's just the way I felt about the situation. Women talk loudly on their cell phones about how dreadfully long the lines were and how much they have to do before they can get dinner on the table tonight. I finally decide on what seems to be the shortest line available, and not seconds after I align myself into position do ten other customers line up behind me. They're all talking, and they're all sighing loudly, and they're all too close to me. The woman behind me has inched her buggy ever so close that it is finally digging into the soft flesh of my ankles (truth be told, I have cankles but whatever.) I can't take it, I can't breathe, I can't even think. The children, and the mothers, and the fathers, and all the people. I can't breathe, and the world starts to break away from me, and the floor start spinning. And I take a small step backwards into the woman's buggy. As I wince with the pain of it, in the loudest stage whisper I can muster I say "Fuck it! I'm going to Target!" And I turn around and leave my buggy in the line with my five gallons of bleach, and my antifreeze. And I regret it because I know that Target will only offer more of the same, but I also am thankful to gain back my sanity with a few well smoked cigarettes in my car on my way back to civilization.

Scene Two
The party is in less than two hours. He's standing there with his sixty four ounce big gulp filled to the brim with crown, and coke. He takes a sip, and steps closer to me. I'm huddled in the small space between the stove and the refrigerator a small one foot square that my body is being forced into like a circus contortionist just to get away from him. Large pots of sauce are simmering, and noodles are boiling, and steam is rising, and he's still sipping, and talking. With every four words out of his mouth comes another sip, no a gulp like the name of the cup implies. I wonder just how long it would take him to drink the entire glass, perhaps a few mere minutes? He's definitely not in the camp of taking one beer at the beginning of the party and taking small sips from it all night so people think that you're boozing it up. Maybe that's a camp that I'm the only member of.

He sips, and licks his lips, still getting closer. and he's talking, talking, and swearing, gesticulating wildly with his hands. I try to stop listening and just attempt to figure out what he's saying just by looking at his hands. From here it looks like he's talking about the violent rape of a particularly large bird. I could be wrong, but I don't think I am. And if I was wrong, I couldn't' be blamed. The heat is getting to me, and the boiling water sizzles and burps, and pops. The steam is in my eyes. There are a million voices all around me, surrounding my every thought. I am loosing a sense of who I am right now. I am only "Jordan! Don't over cook the pasta!" or "Jordan! Come help me drape this sixty yards of white tulle that I have purchased!" or "Jordan! Isn't it time you go take a shower, so you don't look like total shit when your parents get here?" But I can barely hear any of that, because he's still talking. In fact he's getting louder, I don't know how I'd even be able to tell the subtle nuances of his volume with the racket that is going on around me, but I can tell. His mouth is opening wider, his neck is stretching tighter. The wrinkles in his forehead are becoming tighter as to they almost disappear. He looks stressed, he looks terrified. He looks like I'd imagine that I did if I happened to have a mirror on me at the current time, but I don't. All I have is noodles, and tulle, and sauces, and screaming relatives. And all I want is for the voices to stop. And the steam to stop its getting so hot in here. It's unbearable. I can't take it. I just can't. But I have to , it's all for them. Those two people who I love. Begrudgingly, sometimes surely but still love. And I would do anything for them. Even put up with this heat, and the voices all of them. Even his, no matter how drunk he is.

Fuck a Party

Never, ever plan a top secret anniversary party for you parents. It hwill have you waking up in the middle of the night in a panic. Mind racing, stomach churning, having to call the Grandparents that you can't stand, so that they'll shut they're big mouths and not ruin the surprise. Trust me, it's not all that it's cracked up to be.

Busy Part Deux

Remember how I made a post earlier this week to say that I was too busy to post? Yeah, well that still stands. All I have to say is that I'm throwing my parents a twenty fifth anniversary party this weekend. And let me tell you now that if in anytime in the next five years they decide to get divorced they owe me twenty dollars for every single person who shows up to this party that I have to feed.

So anyways, back to being busy I guess.

Busy

I'm sorry that posts have been so scarce lately. I'm a bad person, I get it. Really, I do. But I've just been terribly busy attempting to complete some very important operations that are essential to my happiness. Operations, are as follows.

Operation: buy new Ipod (This one has been a roaring success. Or at least it had been until my male cousin came over and decided that what would be appropriate is to fill up that Ipod with free Internet porn. And some wonder why I don't generally associate with my family)

Operation: clean out my motherfucking car, has not been such a success. I have tried on several attempts, but with no victory. It's getting to the point in my backseat if you roll down the windows discarded McDonald's bags topple out of them. I'm sure the Louisiana Department of Litter thanks me, as does Al Gore.

Operation: Become Her Friend, is making steady progress. What you don't know about "Operation: Become Her Friend?" Well, you wouldn't would you? Because I haven't told anyone but Bryant, and he lives in fucking Guam, so he's not telling anyone.

Operation: Mentionitis is a side project of Operation: Become her friend. It is making small advances, but has recently come to a stand still. Must focus to make this one happen.

Operation: Find a Way to Turn My Hair Color Back To Brown, this one has been plaguing me for two weeks. Must find a solution, and soon.

Operations: Finish Reading "Stop Dressing Your Six Year Old Like A Skank!" by Celia Riverbark. Which is a hilarious book of short essays. You should pick it up, I got mine at Books a Million for under five dollars. What you don't have five dollars? Then I suggest you go to the sea wall, and start giving two dollar hand jobs to passerby. At that rate, you'll only have to do two and a half of them to afford it. And trust me it would be worth it.

Paint Me Black

I forgot to tell you that I dyed my hair this week. It was an impulse kind of thing I guess, I get like that sometimes. When I do things before I think them through. But, I like having black hair, it makes me feel mysterious, and deeper somehow. I have the cover of a lie if I want it, I can be a whole new person. but, I'll probably just stick with what I know, and that's same old Jordan. Anyways heres a picture for you to FEAST your eyes on.

I know what you're thinking..pretty sexy right? Yeah, well keep it in your pants this is a family place bitch.

Talk Dirty to Me

I was talking to my cousin earlier this week, and as I was rambling off on some tirade, she suddenly stopped me. "What the fuck are you talking about?" She asked suddenly, I was confused because I thought I had been clear, and then I thought back on what I had just said and realized how many slang terms that I had used. Slang terms that only a select group of people I know actually use on a daily basis. I never realized how much vernacular I actually use. And though I don't actually use a lot of it on here, I am going to define each and everyone of them for you here in case they ever come up in conversation.

Buck
-adjective
1. Ugly, or otherwise disfigured.
2. To act retarded, or otherwise unrefined.

As used in a sentence:
Your face looks buck today.
or
I don't know what's wrong with him, he's being awfully buck.

Dyke cicle
-noun
1. An angry lesbian.

As used in a sentence:
Jordan, your new haircut makes you look like a dyke cicle.

Trade
-verb, adjective
1. The act of having sex with someone; trading bodily fluids with another.
2. Used to describes someones anatomical attributes.

As used in a sentence:
I had the best trade last night, it was amazing.
or
Dude, check out the trade on her!

Begonia May
-Proper Noun
1. Describing a bitch, southern belle type.

As used in a sentence:
I hate that bitch, she's such a Begonia May.

Dyke Mike
-Proper Noun
1. A male who after dating a girl finds out that she soon after turned into a lesbian.

As used in a real life situation:
I once dated a girl we will refer to as Hennifer Fobbs, and soon after she became a lesbian. Therefore I am a Dyke Mike.

True Story
-A turn of phrase
1. Another way of asking, are you for real, or are you fucking me?

As used in a sentence:
That really happened, true story?

Debbie
-Proper Noun
1. Describing a girl with no personality of her own, acts like a leech and steals the personalities of those who she hangs out with.
2. A hanger on girl, who copies everything you say, think, or do.

As used in a sentence:
Allison, is so bland, she's such a fucking Debbie.
or
She likes everything I like, what a Debbie!

Barney
-Proper Noun
1. The male form of the proper noun Debbie.
2. A generic, hick, unattractive male.

As used in a setence
He won't leave me alone, he's such a Barney.
or
Why is she having sex with that Barney?

Well I hope that this list can be useful in deciphering me in the future.

Believe You Me

It's April first, and once again I'm the fool.

The Other Side of Me

Do you ever have a moment when you say or do something so stupendously stupid, that you have an out of body experience? A brief moment where you seem to float out of your body and can see from a different perspective the awful blunder that you just made? I have those about once or twice an hour it feels like. Those moments where you just wish you weren't yourself. Sometimes I wish that I were someone else, anyone else really. It wouldn't matter who. I'd like to be a socialite living in the Upper East side of New York. With a life filled with things such as Sunday brunches, and society parties, glitz and glamor. I think I would really like that. Or I could be a quirky character on a sitcom. Where every other line out of my line is something witty, and my hair would always be perfect and so would my wardrobe. My life wouldn't be perfect but they're would be plenty of punchlines, so I think I could deal with it. Or maybe I could be a contestant on American Idol, hoping that the general public would like me and keep me on the airwaves. Singing bad seventies cover songs, and forgetting the words with much frequency.

If only it were that easy to just pick another personality completely, and run with it. If only you got to decide things like that before birth. Things like how big your nose is, and what color your hair is, and what kind of person you would be. Not that I don't like myself, because I do. I really do. Sometimes. I like the way I can make people laugh by saying the most inane things. I like the way people ask me for advice as if I have any motherfucking clue as to what I'm talking about. I like my blue eyes, and I like my hair long. I like being tall, and articulate. I like my singing voice, not so much my speaking tone.

Maybe it's not that I don't like being me. Maybe I just wish that I could be a different me. Someone who's not afraid to be completely one hundred percent myself. Someone who never leaves anything reserved or quiet. Someone that no longer just wants to be a period. Someone who wants to be JORDAN! instead of Jordan. If that makes sense at all. And if you don't get it, then I guess you never really did get me at all did you? I've said it before but I just want so much more than what life has offered me so far. I want bright lights, and a fast paced life. I want earthquakes instead of thunderstorms. I want so much more, and I just don't know how to get it. I guess I'm just waiting for my next great idea.

F.U.S.S.

Man, did I ever tell you about that person in Helfin, LA that like really hates me? That one who's always commenting about how much of a fucking loser I am, and how I'm apparently ugly? No, I haven't? Well I totally should sometime.

f.u.s.s.

Welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth

I know this has nothing to do with anything but when I was trying to design a header for this month all I could think of was vintage circus posters, so I attempted to make one. Here it is.

The Post Where I Talk About Britney Spears

If you have ever bought a tabloid just to read what about what Britney Spears is doing, you need to watch this. If you've ever laughed when she shows something, or shaves something, or shows something shaved, then you need to watch this episode of South Park. It is truly one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen.

http://www.southparkzone.com/episodes/1202/Britneys-New-Look.html

I've said it before but...

Beware the Ides of March, that bitch be vicious.

Dear Old Navy,

I would like to say that I have been a patron of your stores for years. I love your khaki pants, and your sweaters, there was once a time where I even loved your graphic tees. Sometimes I can look through old photographs of myself and pick out every article of my clothing from you're past catalogues. And although my tastes in clothing has changed as of recently to more mature and sophisticated wares than what you're fine store offers I still visit once in a while.

In fact I did very recently with my sister. I bought a pair of khaki pants, that I'm still quite fond of. I even purchased this shirt in "Dark Sea Blue Stripe" and plan on coming back for the white one. So if I grace your store with my presence so often, why am I writing you, one might ask? Well the other day when I was in your store, I suddenly had an urge to urinate. Not on one of your graphic tees, but in the restroom. Be it to my surprise when I walked into the men's room and took at a look at the urinal to relieve myself I noticed something odd.

Why is it that there are shit stains in the urinal? Is this some Old Navy secret that I am not privy to? Is it like an unspoken code that all employees must shit in the urinals so as not to tie up the toilets? I just don't get it. It's not like it's a normal thing for a guy to pull down his pants and sit down backwards over the urinal and lay a big dump. I just don't understand is it something in the air at Old Navy that causes guys to as they are shopping for that perfect pair of carpenter jeans to suddenly have a weakening in their bowels? Does it make it so that the only thing they can do is to rush headfirst into the Men's room and shit on the nearest porcelain object they come across? Well whatever it is you need to change it and fast.

I can simply not shop under these conditions. I cannot pick up a pair of boxers and wonder if they're are shit stains in the urinal. I just cannot, especially when your boxers cost eight fifty a piece. Eight dollars and fifty cents is simply too much to pay when there are shit stains in the urinals. I can't look the check out girl in the eye, when I know that they're are shit stains in the urinals. Because she knows that I know, and I know that she knows, and we all know that no one is doing anything about the shit stains in the urinals. How can I even be expected to finish this letter when I know that if I went to Old Navy right now there would more than likely be shit stains in the urinals? How can any of us live in this world knowing that there are shit stains in the urinals at any Old Navy in this world? I hope you can clear this problem up, or at least post banners around the store to let us know why it's happening, that would be greatly appreciated.

P.S. Could you possibly try to make more flip flops in a size thirteen? That would be of much help for me. Thanks.

Your Friend, Jordan