never fail to dissapoint

Well, I finally went out last night.

Whoops.















Although, this guy was on the subway and he was way funnier than he looks.


While waiting for the party connection to call, a bombed leprechaun and his limey assistant magiced me off to an obnoxious night club, and bought me expensive drinks on the BBC's tab. Unfortunately every cocktail made the experience successively worse as the foreigners began demanding women and party connections that I clearly could not provide, and the more drunk I got the more convinced I was that they were going to cause me harm as a consequence. Then a twenty-year old woman of questionable venereal integrity decided to start hitting on me. This made me so uncomfortable, my insides melted and I made good my escape from so much crunkness.

Then I fell asleep on the subway until 6:30 in the morning.

Did I mention I was dressed as a priest?

fake mustache ride

Halloween is my favorite time of the year. I am allowed to dress up like an idiot and get drunk. Just like every other day, accept almost nobody finds it pathetic.

Like years past, my costume this year will be homemade. I'm going as the anathema to the vaginally endowed by getting dressed and leaving the house. I'll probably buy some fake mustaches though.

too beard? or not too beard?

bad ass

















baby's ass





So I decided to get rid of the beard of solitude. Not because I am no longer alone, far from it. It was reaching the point of ridicule, and had to be destroyed. The jawline trim was threatening to consume my entire being. I would stare at it for hours on end trying to decide what, if anything, it said about my inner emotional state. Was it an attractive brown cloud hovering moss-like beneath my pendulous jaw, threatening rain (what?), or a lazy accessory to a defective man's societal charade. And it was lopsided and did not come in very well. Farewell my itchy friend.

Also, I need a well-fitting suit jacket. That is all my "wardrobe," and by extension my life, needs. If I had one of those, I could rename this shit The Pony Party, and we could dance for the rest of our lives in the strobing glow of my messianic aesthetics.

(p.s. Thanks go to Lemony Snicket for the finest instance of two word alliteration in the history of this blog. One love.)

wasting my time and yours

I am an ugly, ugly man.




Sorry about that. Lost the will to live (and with it the will to blog) for a couple of days there.

Went insane. Made some embarrassing phone calls. Drank myself into a little blackout. Would like to say its the last time I'll do it. Can't.

Pathetic realization: I am happiest on the upswing of a hangover. That short time just as you are starting to feel okay again and your mind is coasting on the blank, serene waters of leveled body functions. All of my useless worries are gone, I no longer fear what peril the future holds and feel like I am making it. It may be a dillusional, passing fix, but its mine and I love it.

Time to start looking for a new place again. And still looking for that second job. Lots of looking. Very little finding. Its a theme see.

can nothing good come of this?

Sacred Temple of Chrons











So I went to the Met yesterday. That place is cripplingly cool. And cheap. Give them a dollar, receive a shitty glare for being cheap, and you're in! Currently there is an exhibition of occult photography from the twenties and before. Mediums and fake ectoplasm everywhere. Awesome.

no man is an island, but I am surely not a man

So I figured out how to put cell phone pictures on my blog. Now you can not only read anxious, jittering, C- essays about the minutia surrounding my imminent downfall, but you can actually watch it happen in the shitty technicolor from my crappy phone.














Here's me alienating my co-workers with needlessly apprehensive glares.














And here I am in the morning looking like a pretty sweet Obi-Wan Kenobi.

a trash sandwich from bullshit city

I am insanely stressed out today. I'd really like to dash my skull on the corner of something and crack my head open like an egg. However cowardice is the glue in my malformed tangle of a body, and hypocritical self-preservation the unfortunate bottom-line.

I just ate an entire bag of Craisins. Were I depressingly obese, this would be the point at which I stare longingly at the empty burger wrappers strewn like a wax-paper moat around my lazyboy and lament the loneliness that no amount of grotesque consumption can abate.

But I am crooked and waifish, and staring at an empty bag of semi-health snacks carries not the same amount of guilty gravitas.

micheal j. fox eyes

After years of comic books, Turkish murder porn, and Babysitter's Club novels my beleaguered eyeballs have finally had it. They have chosen to express their displeasure with uncontrollable, and unbelievably annoying spasms.

I'd go ahead and gouge them out if I didn't think people would accuse me of being derivative or Greek.

I do love my mom though.

fun-ctioning alcoholic

Well, I seem to have worked out that urge to erase my brain. It took eight nights of leaden drinking, but I haven't felt the devil's thirst for a couple of days now.

This is not to say that the Rainy Days, Drunken Nights '05 Tour was unproductive. People were saying funny shit left and right, I got acquainted with many fine inebriation stations, and I learned an important lesson in not bringing your cell phone to self-pity night (@ Bonkerz! Mon, Tues, Thurs. 8:30-10:00 PM). Apologies are in order for all of my friends that have the constitution to stomach not only my pathetic/needy messages/texts, but also my increasingly unattractive personality in total.

It's a very nice day today. I'm going to the fucking park.

out of my league

When naked* goddess women grab you around the neck and drag you somewhere, go with it.

Even if it leads you to an intimidating cock.

Seriously, these women are very attractive, and getting stabbed in the back of the head by a penis that makes your own phallis look like a bug bite is worth it. The jokes that girls like this will make about the whole experience will be hilarious. Guaranteed.

(*not actually naked)

its called a bender

I'm on one.

It has been raining for seven days straight. I was finding it kind of romantic in that melodramatic asshole sort of way, but now I just want to dry off a little.

I saw a lady get run over by a cab yesterday. She was alright, but the cab driver dumped his fare and drove away. I had to talk to the emergency response operator on my cellular telephone. It was uncomfortable, but I sensed a subtle connection between us.

Then I bought a couple of good comics.

Later, I went out and played darts. My overall accuracy was shocking, however my bullseye skills were...fecal.

I hope that lady is really okay.

are you asking for a challenge?

According to GoogleFight, I have lost the battle with life by 1,423,000,000 points.

Other things that have bested me in battle: war, suicide, and disease.

Although I soundly trounced pestilence, VD, and famine.

This explains my ability to live a life of shambling activity while eating like a third world eight-year old. Although, despite my victory over pestilence, I continue to be plagued by mysterious bug bites all over my arms that itch like the dickens. I have no idea where they come from, but I think it has something to do with this house. There's probably ticks and chiggers and all manner of backwoods horrors in this place. I gotta find a new place.

am I wasting my life, or is my life a waste

It was raining so hard last night that I got drunk.

I found an alright new bar with a wild-west-popcorn-dart thing going on. I can't be sure, but the place was either filled with knuckle draggers, or indie rockers, or both. I ended up having some other drunk guy teach me how to throw darts for like, two hours. It was the last car on the fun train and I wasn't very coherent.

Then I eat something somewhere I don't remember and I'm having real hard menstral cramps this morning.

drinking where bright eyes fears to tread

How fun is Brooklyn? Sure it might seem ugly and industrial, and you might feel shitty when some hipster rides by on a retooled vintage bicycle, shouting "PEDESTRIAAAAN!", but every bar seems to have some magical patio garden hidden in the back, and you can run into friends from thousands of miles away just by walking down the street. I should get drunk there more often.

the country's most cunning linguist has passed

I'm probably the last one to notice this, but now you can choose which eight friends are displayed on your myspace profile. Let the brutal interpersonal Darwinism begin! Oh man I love the internet.

My attempts at finding a night job are meeting with a firm wall of unresponsiveness from potential employers. This is discouraging because I enjoy surviving. It could be the beard.

Which, by the way, is coming in like gangbusters. My rugged new look is knocking down doors and creaming off drawers. Yep, just givin' bitches itches from the rash on their gash (re: cunnilingus).

(The rhymes in this blog are dedicated to the "Poet Laureate of Television," Nipsey Russell who died Sunday at the age of 80 something.)

I'm dreaming of violence

I rarely dream (or at least rarely remember them), but this morning between 3:00 AM and 1:30 PM, I had many.

In one of the especially vivid dreams I was walking through Harlem with my mom and little brother to retrieve the purple sleeping bag that someone had stolen to use to wrap a murder victim in. But then, right when we found it, this thug in gold chains walked up and beat holy living shit out of me. When I woke up in the hospital, I didn't know what had happened to my mom and brother, but felt really guilty for having brought them there. When I actually woke up, I thought I was still broken and had a hard time starting to move again. It was unique.

The J&K train rolled into town last night and I ended up in that "you're the guys!" state of affectionate inebriation. But really, they were and are "the guys." I hope we can get an apartment together. That'd be nice.

Also, the Bostonian bought cats! Two cute as hell little kitties just rollin' around being cute as fuck all over the place.

a career in suicide

Today is my two month anniversary here in New York, and the rancid smell of failure is beginning to waft about me in cartoon stink lines. I have taken a new job for cripplingly lower pay and no benefits; my apartment is still a maze of surfaces irreparably sticky with grease and mung; my contact with other human beings has devolved into a state of interaction not unlike the Tamagochi of yore, communicating only via digital missives of strained feeling; my record-breaking bout of sexlesness continues furiously apace, with my lack of physical contact triggering a regrowth of my hymen; my solitude has upped my alcohol intake to financially disastrous levels, leaving me destitute by my own hand; and worst of all, these are states that I have willingly thrust myself into.

Life is one rotting fruit.

Deciding to put myself in these situations seemed like good ideas at their respective times, but cumulatively, I think I may have badly miscalculated.

Oddly, I am not altogether upset about my state of affairs. Other than the occasional panic attack and desire to throw myself in front of a subway train, I feel rather okay. The solitude is unpleasant, but I am getting used to it. Same goes for my poverty. My new job, while not lucrative is at least pretty fun, and employs beautiful, aesthetically-anarchist bicycle girls whose attention I can foolishly attempt to capture.

And there's always this.