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?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.