Sunday, June 7, 2015

you ever wake up and wish you had your lips wrapped around a shotgun?

if you read that title and think the worst... you're off by a few years. if you read that title and got settled in your chair and was ready for some uncomfortable storytelling, you know me very well. and if you read that title and are reading this blog for the first time.. BUY A FUCKING BOOK.

i got up this morning and took a solid shit. i had 5 or so hours of disjointed sleep, but felt pretty good. i figured i would get outside and start getting some shit done before it got too hot. about 3 steps into going down to get the paper, my stomach asks me where the fuck did i think i was going? like the stubborn fucker i am, i kept walking. walking up the driveway with the paper, i could feel my stomach churning and some shit start to poke out. fuck me. i got to the toilet with about 3 seconds to spare. one mess avoided. so, after some Imodium, i go out and start feeding the birds. i put out a new solar light we got yesterday and then i wanted to test out the new hose we got. i turned on the water for the outside and the garage. imagine my surprise when some fucker left the water spigot in the garage completely open. imagine my surprise when my mother had an open cardboard box underneath that spigot. now, if i grew up in a nurturing, loving household, this would be something to laugh about and say oh well to. i didn't grow up in that house. in my dysfunctional mind, i'm 9 years old and helping my father try to fix a lawnmower and i spill some oil and it's the end of the fucking world, AGAIN. anytime i have ever tried to do something good it blows up in my fucking face. i pull weeds for my mother when i was 18 so i could go to Woodstock. what happens? i get covered in poison ivy from head to toe and have to watch the concert from home in the basement. i eventually got what could be saved dried off and the rest thrown away. by the way, the hose works.

i had a blueberry muffin and coffee for breakfast. 30 seconds after being done with that, back to the toilet. these are the days i'm convinced i will kill myself before i get to 50 years old. and no matter how many times my mother tells me it's ok, don't worry about it, shit happens, etc., the more i beat myself up about it. i know i am not perfect. yet, i still expect myself to be perfect. i never have been able to stomach mistakes. such a beautiful trait handed down to me from my father. 4th grade. i walk home, proud, prepared to show my father my spelling test that i got the highest score in the class on. i get home, find him sitting at the table in his underwear eating a bowl of cereal. i show him the test. i got a 97 on it. he asks me where the other three points are. i tell him i missed one word. he asks me why. i had no answer for him, i just missed it. he then looks me in the eyes and tells me that a 97 isn't good enough. that tells me anything less than perfection and my father wouldn't love me. well, didn't that come fucking true. yet, here i am, still wanting to be perfect hoping one day that dead fucker will love me. and people wonder why i refuse to have children.

needless to say, if i ever get done beating myself up today, i might actually plant those wildflowers or enjoy some television. if not, get ready for some poems of despair.

a quick music break to clean the pallet:

the trip to the grocery store yesterday turned into a trip to 2 different stores. and wouldn't you know it, some of the shit that we got doesn't fit, so we get to take it back today. fucking joy. i think i intimidated the bag boy at the grocery store so damn bad that the dumb fuck forgot to put the saucepan mom paid for in our cart. that was a fun, frantic search once we got home. the chair we got from the other store doesn't fit the space in the kitchen. mom has decided she's going to move her office to the kitchen. yesterday was a bit frustrating. we got back home just in time for me to see Barcelona score the first goal. we left nearly 3 hours before the game was to start.

Barcelona beat Juventus 3-1 yesterday to win the Champions League. the game went pretty much how i thought it would go. Juventus did a good job containing Messi, but, unless you have 16 or so players, you can't stop Neymar and Suarez at the same time as Messi.

after that was over, i squeezed in the new episode of ROH. it was outstanding, if this is the episode they show on this upcoming Wednesday, i'll gladly watch it again.

then, it was time to watch some history. i've been waiting since my childhood for a horse to win the Triple Crown. my grandmother got me into horse racing. we used to watch every race together when i was a child. so when American Pharoah came around the final turn, i thought of her. and when the horse won, i started to cry. 37 fucking years later, and there is finally another Triple Crown winner. American Pharoah was in the lead the entire race. what a great horse.

since the Yankees were blacked out in my area, i sort of flipped between the hockey game, some home improvement shows and the internet last night.

the Yankees won 8-2. they go for a sweep of the Angels this afternoon. hopefully they can keep the ball rolling.

i did watch some of the UFC last night. i really wanted to see if Dan Henderson has anything left. i guess he isn't finished yet:

i'm looking forward to the Sunday night shows tonight. of course, i'll have all of them on the DVR tonight just in case: Nurse Jackie, Happyish, Penny Dreadful, Silicon Valley, Veep and Last Week Tonight. i'll probably watch some of the NBA Finals tonight as well. the last 5 minutes if it happens to be close.

that's all for me today. go read the 4 poems i've had published in the last 48 hours and if you like them, tell the world that you do. i'll be on here sometime tomorrow, mental and weather permitting.

be well. be creative. be cool. be quick to send me CASH, panties, hate mail, love letters, broken promises and dirty pennies from heaven.

peace and chicken grease...


JJ Grey & Mofro - This River
Lana Del Rey - Video Games
Gary Jules - Mad World
Ryan Bingham - The Poet
The Velvet Underground - Pale Blue Eyes

"You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on." - Dean Martin

and your pro wrestling video of the day:

No comments:

Post a Comment