Maybe someday you’ll learn
Maybe someone will put you in your place
Someone will show you you aren’t hot shit
You’ll have to face what you’ve become.
Someday the door is going to hit you in the ass
Someday all your bullshit will catch up with you
Someday you will be alone.
I hope one day you realize
that your cruelty has a price
that in the end
you wasted what was good
and it’s far too late to mend the ruin
of your own doing.
When you big shiny dream caves in around you
I won’t be there anymore
and you’ll be sorry
for the way things went
and you’ll know what you pissed away
but I will be long gone.
And I will not look back over my shoulder
at you lying in the rubble of your own doing
You burnt your bridges
might as well lie in the bed you made
You might think you shut me out.
But you shut yourself in.
What I can’t hold
is this love
that has swelled my heart
to a bursting size
My ribs can barely contain
this big red heart
beating our song
shouting your name.
|
One of my favorite comedians ever has passed. I have nothing to write I just wanted to put out a few of my absolute favorite bits of his here. Enjoy. RIP GC
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Here’s another pack of jackoffs who ought to be strangled in front of their children. People who pay for inexpensive items with a credit card. You know? Folks, take my word for this, Raisinetts is NOT a major purchase. Get some fucking cash together. No one should be paying the bank eighteen percent interest on Tic-Tacs. And you’re holding up the fucking line, too. Some dorky looking prick with a fanny pack waiting to be approved for a bag of Cheese Doodles. I need this like I need an infected scrotum. Get some fucking money. Next guy in front of me that pays for Newsweek with a credit card is getting stabbed in the eyes!
I don’t think you should outlaw fantasizing about someone else’s wife. Otherwise, what’s a guy gonna think about when he’s waxing his carrot?
Here’s something you never hear a guy say: “Stop sucking my dick, or I’ll call the police!”\
I don’t have pet peeves; I have major psychotic fucking hatreds, okay. And it makes the world a lot easier to sort out.
I’m thinking of opening up a motel and calling it “The Sleep and Fuck”. Wouldn’t that be a good, honest name for a motel, who needs this “Shady Pines”-bull shit? “The Sleep and Fuck”-motel. Get me one of them big neon signs: “Sleep”, “Fuck”, “Sleep”, “Fuck”.
“Oh, don’t act disgusted! Don’t act disgusted! Half of you are gonna go home and go down on each other tonight, remember? If you’re willing to swallow cum, let’s not make believe that something I said was disgusting!”
“Imagine your grandmother in hell baking pies…Without an oven”
We don’t do it often
but when we do
my pulse beats like splattering rain
my heart shrivels
like soldered ashes
and everything is dark and bad
but when we fight
I realize how much there is to lose
that whatever the argument,
this love is stronger
and that the real fight
is the one in me
never giving up on you
on us.
Like a box of parts
that doesn’t make anything
that don’t go with anything else
that don’t match or fit eachother
Missing a piece,
required to be useful
Needing a piece
to be whole again
Needing that piece
to have a purpose
Wanting to be useful
but without being used.
For starters, herein lies the assumption that everyone celebrates Christmas. If I were a Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Shinto, Buddhist, or Pagan I would probably be seething with rage from October 1st to December 26th. As soon as a leaf turns orange every store puts up lights, trees, the nativity, and forces Christmas into every orifice of the passerby. I consider myself to be an atheist, but I celebrate the American Christmas bullshit as far as gifts, gluttony, and shameless alcohol abuse goes.
The average American Christmas scarcely involves Jesus at all. On Christmas Eve, anyone who was born Christian suddenly remembers the whole church bit and rushes into get their yearly dosage, and soon remember why they never go to church to begin with. The same story, awful songs, boring rituals, stand-sit-kneel, yadda yadda. As a victim of Catholic damage I know this bullshit all too well. Sitting among the guilt-ridden church sheep for what seems like an eternity in a jam-packed pew, suffocating in the smell of old lady perfume, and trying to drown out the sound of wailing infants. It seems a screaming baby wrapped in red velvet is the perfect Christmas accessory. I used to go along to appease my father, as he pitifully believes that my once-a year church observation will absolve me of all the alcohol abuse, unlawful altercations, and wild, pre-marital sex I’ve been having all year.
Another reason people feel like offing themselves might be the immense pressure of getting everyone a gift. Mom, Dad, siblings, grandparents, uncles you can’t stand, the boyfriend/girlfriend you think you might dump around New Year’s anyway, your boss, the coworker who is constantly snapping her gum and bitching about her kids, etc. You always end up shopping for someone who will return whatever you get anyway. What the fuck?! Why do we bother with this shit?!?! I think I’m getting those extra people on my list socks as a not-so-subliminal way of telling them I hate them.
Then we come to my favorite people. Those fucking assholes you don’t see all year but feel the need to send you a fucking update letter on how they are all doing, how much better their family is than yours, and a picture of their happy little family gathered around a Christmas tree. Can we please find a way to forward all these letters to a secret, underground militia that will have these people eliminated completely? I didn’t think so.
So, as they say if you can’t beat ‘em, join’em. Considering I haven’t spoken to my extended family in over 4 years I might as well let everyone know what’s been happenin’…Like the fact that I have two jobs that suck, bills out the ass, I live in a ghetto, and am basically F’ed in the A. Or maybe I should inform them tha I often consider leaving the U.S. to start a Colombian drug cartel and live a life of violence, lawlessness and pure, unbridled joy.
Until then, I’ll suspend the urge to hang myself from the ceiling with Christmas lights as a sort of festive suicide/mistletoe decoration by maintaining a vicodin/booze/food coma for the next month and a half.
Happy Fucking Holidays.
I never realized how awkward a transition it was from a relationship to single life. How quickly one forgets the hazards that come with being single. You finally break it off, after months in which you looked forward to fighting the way you used to look forward to sex. You both make little laundry lists of the things you can’t stand about each other during the day so you can vent them at night. “You always chew with your mouth open”, “You grind your teeth at night”, “You always forget to put the toilet seat up.” Aside from the emotional spectrum, there’s the physical discomfort. The stress relief and relaxation from sex on a regular basis is gone and now you’re a jittery, irritable, insatiable animal. For me, working out only slightly curbs the excess of energy surging through my hungry little body, and it is sometimes cancelled out by a hot stud pumping iron and I get all worked up again. Fortunately, there are plenty of old and overweight people at the gym (always uncomfortably close in the locker room) that avert my desires and force me to get in, get out, and go home to a cold shower.
Now, I did not say that it is difficult to get action, I’m a female. This is simply not the case. The problem is I’ve become selective. After spending time in a relationship, you become less likely to snap back into your freshman hookup phase, in which you hooked up with one of your close friends because you knew each other and you lived on the same quad. You start to want the person you hook up with to be more worth your effort. At least they should have half a brain right? I don’t want to listen to some idiot rattle on about his high school football team, or stand in front of me flexing and grunting in some prehistoric form of foreplay. So despite the fact that selectivity narrows the playing field, it also makes the game more enjoyable to play.
So when you get down to it, you find a consensual, reasonably attractive, and at least semi-interesting person how much effort do you put forth? If you throw down all your best moves they might freak out. “Where did she learn this? I didn’t know you could bend that way!” What if your dirty talk is too dirty? Then there’s always the fact that you’ve been out of commission. What if you try to pull the upside-down reverse cowgirl and throw out your back? That’ll be fun to explain to an EMT. But then again if you don’t work it enough they might get bored. They might have expected more and now what? You just blew it with a hookup.
Oh and what about your stuff? You never had to worry about losing stuff before? But now because some girl wore a tanktop out on a Friday night in January she made off with your favorite hoodie Saturday morning. And you aren’t getting it back. Or how about accessories? Your jewelry collection begins to diminish at an alarming rate. I have a friend who lost her favorite pair of earrings in a hookup gone so wrong that she will never, ever go back to get them.
Say you found something that works, you end up hooking up with same person a few times, but they start to worry that you’re trying to rebound. They think “whooaa shit, I’m the next victim.” It’s hard to explain that no, really this is just purely convenient for both of us, but in the particularly in the case of men it is in their nature to run away screaming. And who can blame them? Most girls are looking to throw the old lasso around that steer and drag him to the ground, beating him over the head with how “good we’ll be together.” You bitches are ruining it for those of us who just want a piece of weekend ass. But I’d be unfair if I didn’t mention those guys that get too attached too soon. You “emo” motherfuckers. Guys who think a type of music is a lifestyle. The male version of a girl who perpetually menstruates. Moody, irritable, sad, cold. God I hate you. What are you searching for? A fucking soulmate? Get real! Turn off Dashboard Confessional, take off your tight squeaky jeans and wash your hair for Christ’s sake! No one wants to cry with you.
Now that you’re single you realize that you have no alibi to those who pursue you despite the fact that you’d rather go Chris Porco on them than have a conversation. You got way too accustomed to brushing people off with: “Sorry, I have a boyfriend/girlfriend.” “Hey baby can I holla at you?” “Sorry, gotta a boyfriend.”, “Hi, lol, I’m in your psych class, lol.” “Sorry, I have a gf”, “Would you like rice with that?” “Sorry, gotta boyfriend.” Now every time someone makes a play you squirm awkwardly and try to think of a polite way to refuse. You might give them a fake number, you might tell them your cell phone is broken (and as you lie “Buttons” begins to mysteriously play from your purse), you might ignore their calls, you might just come up with a different relative that just happens to “die” every weekend.
Lastly, I’ve noticed a lot lately that most people are completely full of shit when it comes to compliments. I have not received an original compliment in so long it’s fucking sad. I hate forced, bullshit flattery more than Mel Gibson hates the Jews. I am NOT the hottest girl in Albany. Don’t fucking lie to me. I am cute, and at times, sexy. I may have been hot on a few occasions. But barring electrocution or some new sort of genocide in which I am burned alive, it is extremely probable that I will never be the hottest anything. I can deal with that. I think being the “hottest” would be a lot of pressure. And how would you ever get anything done, wading through the admirers, stalkers, and freaks at your feet?
Anyway, if you’re still reading this, thank you.
Kegs n’ Eggs is a phenomenon I discovered my first year at UAlbany. The weekend either before or after St. Patrick’s Day most of the local bars open up early in the morning, charge a $10-$20 cover, and then allow the patrons to drink as much as they can until the taps run out. When the taps run out, students and locals alike wander drunk in the streets, occasionally catch the parade, get arrested, puke, pass out, or whatever.
When 9:30 rolls around we make our way over to our old Freshman-year stamping ground, the
Long Branch. On the way we see frat guys beating the shit out of each other in the snow and sorority girls who are dumb enough to wear heels with their little Greek lettered outfits tripping over themselves. At the Branch, there is a line wrapped around the corner, but we are too drunk to care. A blow-up doll is being passed up and down the line. A kid staggers outside of the bar into the street, his shirt is ripped and his eyes are lolling around in his head. He starts to walk toward Washington Ave and his pants fall down. A friend comes to his rescue and pulls his pants up for him. The kid tries to light the wrong end of a cigarette. Everyone in the line is laughing hysterically at him. Someone yells out: “Kegs n’ Eggs: It’ll get ya drunk!” As we wait in line I try to gauge my drunkenness against that of other people. I see girls wearing designer clothing and laugh to myself, that shit is getting wrecked today. Behind us there is a girl who has gone tanning so much she no longer looks like a human being. Craig turns to me and says, “That bitch looks like a carrot.” The orange girl definitely hears him. I wedge myself into the middle of the line and manage to cut about 20 times without anyone noticing or complaining. I hand over ten bucks and seal my ID into a Ziplock bag and enter the madness.
As soon as I step in the doorway beer hits me in the face. People are already soaked and there is about three inches of beer on the floor. A group of guys at the front of the bar have their shirts ripped in shreds and they are slapping each other making pink marks on each other’s chests and backs. Some sort of homoerotic Neanderthal ritual I suppose. Some people are wearing green party hats; others are drinking beer from the hats. I move up to the bar and wedge in to get a pitcher. As I reach for it someone pours a cold beer down the back of my neck, “AH! Dammit!” I yell, the beer sliding down my back and sending chills all over me. I turn around to see my friend Jesse, and I hurl my pitcher of beer into his face. We’re both laughing hysterically and I ask the bartender to fill me up again.
Every kind of debauchery seems to be occurring. The toilets are overflowing; someone has puked in the corner. Gropers are having a field day as the bar is packed and they can fondle away anonymously. I feel a hand on my ass and can’t turn around to see whose it is, whatever, I guess that’s a compliment. Friends and strangers alike are coating each other with Busch Light. The beer is stinging the shit out of my eyes; I guess I should have left my contacts at home. I can smell weed and wonder who had the balls to bring that in here, and how are they keeping it dry? People are sliding on their stomachs in the beer on the floor. Irish jig music is playing and people are laughing and dancing and pouring beer into each others’ ears, eyes, down their shirts, into their pants; there is not a dry patch on anyone. Every now and then an older hit song comes on and the drunks belt it out in unison: “NO SLEEP ‘TIL
BROOKLYN!” The bouncers seem pretty relaxed amid the absolute chaos around them. I spot a couple making out like it’s their last day on earth and point them out to my friends. We collectively throw beer on them, just because.
There are people drinking beer from everywhere you can imagine. A girl asks me to wring the beer out of my hair into her cup, “Are you fucking serious?” I ask. A kid with a tongue ring is licking the beer off of the bar. The bartender is laughing in disbelief. Guys are sucking it off the necks of random girls. You would think it was some kind of ambrosia rather than watery tap beer. Some dude is wearing a hat that says “Show me your tits” and a few girls are actually complying….
Joining the ranks of everyone else who thinks their shit is worth reading.
