Get Me Out

Wow, so this one will probably kind of suck because I’m totally sober (no really, I’m not even being sarcastic) and I have to keep myself in check based on my current surroundings. So today’s topic is one near and dear to my heart, New England’s Rising Star, suck-ass Hartford, CT. And not so much the city, but how much I need to pack my shit up and move out.

This place sucks. Really. A lot. I can’t put into words how much better I think my life would be right now if I lived somewhere else, like Boston, or Baltimore, or West Palm Beach, or Northern Cali, or Beirut (say what you will, the national sport is Beirut! Wait, it isn’t?). I’ve been stuffed up America’s left nostril here for 7 ½ of the longest, worst, most boring years of anyone’s life. I’d have rather spent the time in the Tower of freaking London wearing an iron mask. I would have had more fun working in a sweatshop in Borneo making Nikes for 3 cents a day. Ok, quick tangent, where the hell is Borneo? Does anyone even know? Are there any Borneans (not born-agains) in my reading audience that can tell me? Is it in Africa? Is it an island? Is it even a real place? For all I know it could be in Middle freaking-Earth with the Hobbits and that shit. Back to my problems now. This place sucks. And I say this stuff every day, and what do I do about it? Nothing! Why? Because as much as I hate it here, I’m this place’s bitch. It owns me. Damn you Hartford! Let me go! Geez, you let every other person I know get out, what’s so bad about my Karma that I have to stay. Is it because I defiled my roommate’s tent at Woodstock? What else are you supposed to do when a girl flatly asks you, “So, are you going to take advantage of me or what?” How is the answer to that not yes? So what if I had to soil a tent I didn’t own and she turned out to be married. She clearly wasn’t married to the concept of monogamy!

And with that 10 cent word, I will now calm down and leave you. Anybody with job possibilities, call me. I’m off to try to eat my own face. What does that mean?

Screw Valentine's Day, and Screw You

I wrote "screw" because "fuck" seems mean, but seriously, fuck all of you.

Dear anybody who enjoyed Valentine's Day,

Please go directly to hell, do not pass go, do not collect $200. Now, you all may think I'm just bitter because I didn't have a date for national "Everybody gets laid except me" Day, but trust me, it goes WAY beyond that. First, I get the pleasure of dealing with my own redardedly loserly life, then everybody and their mother starts calling me to bitch about their own problems. Here's a news flash for the whole world. You'll recognize the time when I give a rat's ass about your problems by the smoking gun in my hand and the 4 inch hole in the back of my skull. Now, some folks may see all this from a jackass like myself who spends WAY too much time trying to fix other people's problems ans say something like, "Physician, heal thyself". And of course, to that I respond just like DeNiro did in the Untouchables, "Fuck you, and your family".

So now I'm home with my engaged roommates (making me mental, but not their fault, not in the least) and all I want is a distraction to get me through the remainder of the night. And what does TV, my trusted ally, respond with? The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Really? That's the best you could come up with? You couldn't give me The Hunt for Red October? Hell, I'd have settled for Red Sonja, at least a lot of extras get their butts chopped up in that one. And this was back in Brigitte Neilsen's prime (or however that freaking amazon spells her name, hey, she was in Cobra, I refuse to show any respect) and she looked hot.

So back to my original point. May you all get syphillis and go blind, or deaf, or mute, or lose your keys, or whatever happens to people who dare cross me. Huzzah!

And they said drunk people wouldn't enjoy typing. Now excuse me, I have to drunk dial (or text maybe) someone who will soon also hate Valentine's Day. Love, Octo-boy.

PS - I know, and I don't care. TFB, jerk-faces.