Effeminate Vodka Drinks & the Mental Millennium Falcon

No matter how many precious pennies of knowledge I’ve collected (or pilfered) from the peaceful pond of womanhood, I find myself surprisingly short at the candy counter more often than not; my understanding of their nature seems to continually evolve beyond my comprehension like an incessant mutation. Perfection is ever so slightly out of reach each and every time I’m upon an answer making my hypothesis instantly out of scope the nanosecond my neurons identify or attempt intercourse with it. The ladies continually surprise me, that and their obvious lack of eyesight or standards as it were, most especially when it comes to your accursed cannibal.

On a more or less unrelated subject, I understand Neil Young music now, can’t get enough of his old stuff. It makes me feel broken, but only in pieces can you see some of both sides at once.

Thanks to our effervescent (or is it “ever effeminate”) beverage pushing bacon boy, the Dark Pig, the ginger ale and vanilla vodka of lore snaps at me from a cocktail glass to my left while my parents’ gorgeous golden retriever lies curled up at my feet like a glorious pair of panting slippers. How fitting I think, a bitch at my feet, a stiff drink longing for my undivided attention and responsive keys at my ever numbing finger tips. A great man once said; “Great kid! Don’t get cocky!” I guess I owe my weird world a sliver of reflection from the bridge of my own mental Millennium Falcon.

The colors in the bowl are most certainly bright, but stir it up a little and the fetid rot from the bottom begins to reveal itself in the broth, to stir it in would surely serve no purpose but to make it all taste like shit, no matter the condiments, conditions or kisses. I guess in some ways, I’ve evolved beyond myself and have become something that they all told me I’d be or I’m doing it all to spite them just the same, I’m not sure which.

Dollface once said that I was “going through something”; I think that’s most applicable now. In the past I’ve been called a “saboteur”, meaning that I like to stir that very bowl whether or not it requires whisking. I’ve made some choices of ingredients that I perhaps should’ve avoided and I’ve over seasoned so much that the original taste is nothing but a mild suggestion.

I need to play my guitar more – write songs about something other than rough sex, flatulence or nostalgic nookie – reform my band or start a new one as a result.

Focus on drawing/painting again – try to avoid the “safe” route for fear of failure, push the boundaries and render that which not only challengers the viewer but the “arteest” as well.

I will finish the illustrations for book one of the comic series that the Pig and I created and stop trying to make it perfect (even though my shading is nowhere near as accomplished as what Jeff can do – talented dickhole).

Cut back on porn consumption (save for the homemade variety – but more on that later) – a blossoming fetishist is one thing but an outright pervert is another. I have a talent for finding the free stuff, no one should have to pay for Putty Tat

I have to finish at least three of the last 6 short films I’ve been working on (yes, including the filthy one that should prove to be quite entertaining).

Tell a gal pal that trying to kill herself twice in one year does indeed make her look like more of a failure than she originally thought and that if she dies I’m going to upskirt her corpse and post it on the internet – serves her right.

Figure out why my ex-girlfriend from 13 years ago is suddenly trying to get back in my pants again (even after having two kids elsewhere, so it’s not the cannibal custard she wants, but something else).

Unearth why yet another ex-girlfriend from seven years ago has suddenly been drawn out of seclusion to further haunt my dreams and thoughts after dumbly stumbling across a pile of naughty Polaroid’s we took and a stuffed shoebox of her discarded under things – does she want them back? Is she dead?

Apologize to the past “Wife” for the previous year, tell her what is really going on and that it really wasn’t her fault in the least. I’m an asshole, don’t deserve her attention and she’s truly better off without me.

I need to stop flirting; it gets me in nothing but trouble, I am a whore and women respond to that in a manner that befits such a thing – but it is fun nonetheless.

I need to understand or accept that everyone is not out there to get me and those that are probably aren’t worth my time anyway.

Listen to more Neil Young without allowing his shrill voice to drive me out the window.

I need to make the seat on my recumbent bike at least as comfortable as the couch so that I can out peddle my rising blood pressure.

Be a better friend, son and employee. Try not to be such a fuck up.

Thanks Neil

Playing poker with the Pig *NEXT* Saturday, I suck heavy at poker so I’ll be the one they all pick on and will likely lose all my money on a misplaced bluff but I think I need the night of debauchery, if only to reaffirm my place in the world (or in the Pig’s spare bedroom – my third home as it were).

iPod played “Neil Young – Four Strong Winds” while posting