Thursday, March 22, 2007

good times

It's been a while since I've written anything. Bite me I've been busy. I started to write something about my birthday last month but didn't get to finish, and when I could I felt it had been too long. I didn't want people to think I was a douchebag writing about my birthday three weeks later as if it happened the day before. And if I edited it, I would have had to change tenses and that would have led to all sorts of grammatical incorrecteses that I can't have because I respect grammar far, far, far to much. Far to much.

But to be brief I was super smashed on my birthday. Thank you to everybody who came out and had a good time. Even bigger thanks to everyone who bought me a drink. Which was practically everyone. I apologize now if you bought me a drink and I didn't thank you at the time. I don't remember anything after riding the bull so there's the possibility I snatched the drink out of your hand and pounded it saying, "Greggie drunk" then patted you on the head. I honestly don't know.

For people who weren't there, which are the ones who read me anyways, we went barhopping at the universal studios city walk. It's a cool place to hop and I've never done it there before. We stopped by a spot called the Sattle Ranch at the end of the night where they have an electronic bull. I named him Timothy because he didn't frighten me. Now, I had never actually ridden a bull - metaphorically and physically -but just like, hang on u know? Wtf?

Yet it was that simple i wouldn't have been hanging on the side of the bull 2-3 seconds later flailing around with my socks showing. And goddamnit, if I had known my socks would be showing I would have worn my gold toes. In my defense, I did bet the switch guy 5 bucks I wouldn't fall off so he really let me have it... and I was using one hand... So the bull's name is still fucking Timothy.

Good times apparently. And I got a job at this place called Bubba Gump's Shrimphouse on the Santa Monica pier. So I'm happy to be back on the force. Like an A-dult. Right now I'm a host but hopefully by the time summer comes around they'll make me a server. I can't wait to spit on people's food. The amount power I have at a resturaunt turns me on immensely. I've got to boss people around at my last job, that was whatever. I'd rather spit in people's food, so guests better treat me with respect. That's why they're called guests and not customers. They're in my house. And I'm an asthma victim. I know how to hawk a loogie. It may feel like there nothing's in my throat, but oh I can always find something. I got time and patience. I'll jerk off in it. I'll put some extra calories in someone's food.

Don't need to work at El Pollo Loco
To be Loco
I'll choke the chicken on your chicken
Then sip on some SoCo


The only catch is that as a server you have to lead a happy birthday song. Not THE happy birthday song but A happy birthday song. Bubba Gump Shrimphouse's birthday song. It goes like this:

This is your birthday song
This is your birthday song
I don't know what I've been told
Someone here is getting old
I don't know what has been said
Someone's face is getting red

And all the servers echo the lines. Then they do some corny soundoff that I forget and everybody leaves. The point is, I contain about as much pep as black tar heroin. And don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm dull or lack energy. Pep to me is different. It is Panglossian. It is the happiness of the unrelenting optimist. Pep to me is what people who love Jesus a little bit too much have. And I have a hard time being that person. For example, I would have no problem singing something like, "This is your birthday song" then holding up a raisin and being like, "now this is your dong", but without the loving insults to balance things out it feels so OC (Out of Character).

Trader Joes would always get on my case for not being peppy enough. But that's my complaint for now and its not a really big one. All my co-workers are pretty chill and I don't think my managers are going to hate me this time around. Yes, I dare say I sense some like with them. This is rare for me to say because I'm lazy like a plague.

Other than that, things are normal. Nothing spectacular to report. I'm going to coachella in a week and a half and I couldn't be more excited. Coachella, if you haven't heard, well... Look it up. It's going to be amazing. It is a concert. And it will be the awesomeness. I can't wait to see the Arcade Fire after a pot brownie and a couple beers. As long as I pace myself with drinking, and carry a little canister to urinate in so I don't lose my spot in the crowd, it will be good times. Good times. Like sex. If sex played loud music for large crowds to rock out to.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

A lesson learned

I've been desperate for a job for roughly a month and a half now. I quit my last job at bath and body works because they weren't giving me enough hours. Plus the place was starting to suck my life away. I worked as a runner so I never really sold stuff and affirm my quite possibly absurd notion that I'm a good salesman, and when I did, I found out way too many old women shopped there. They would come in and stock up on anti-aging lotions, and I'd be in the background pointing at stuff saying, "yeah that's good... my mom uses it". This is got boring quick.

And I've loved the time off. Most of it at least. Mainly the week after I got my last check. All the weeks after that have sucked. Cuz I blew all my money, if you didn't catch that.

Which is the worst feeling in the world to me, being broke. It's one of the top things I hate, right next to taking the bus, waking up, and some might even say movement in general (most of my laziness is motor laziness. I have ambitious thoughts though). It occured to that I'd make a good living as a waiter. I think I have a good waiter look. This of course, could just be another one of my positive delusions, but I'd like to believe of have a certain aura of zen-like patience.

Now in reality, I'm not patient. But I've had enough customer service experience to know that I can at least deal. Quite well actually. I'd argue I need at least 10 more years of customer service experience to take a gun to work (even then I'd only shoot the men). And thats if I laid off smoking marijuana. Which probably won't happen. So I guess I can make that 15 years. I'll be successful by then, and the only human I'll have to deal with will be my manager. And I won't be selling him shit. So I'll be set.

I went for an interview at Islands down by the marina. I really wanted to work by the beach, and there was definate potential there for drinking on the job. They made me take this quiz on all the burgers there, which i actually studied for, and they hired me. The guy who hired me told me to come in that Saturday at 8:00 for orientation. He told me to buy black shoes, which mean I was set.

Friday 2:00am: I am still drinking. Anyone who knows me would have forecasted this. The only thing unpredictable would be me getting up in the morning, but I was feeling pretty confident I would pull it off. After 4 hours of sleep I figured I'd still be drunk and wake up gracefully without a hangover, which would ultimately come later but at least I got through the hard part.

What followed was roughly 20 minutes playing with the snooze button and roughly 30 minutes of presumably deep sleep while my buzzer blared right next to my eardrum. When i finally woke up to shut it off, it was 8:20, and there was no way I could make it on time. I called later that day, asking if I could make an orientation some other time, and they told me my position had been "refilled".

So I learned a valuable lesson. Besides not trusting myself to wake up drunk, I learned I could still sleep soundly even if what sounded like a an oscar meyer weiner whistled went off repeatedly by my head. I do not know how long I will remember this lesson. Luckily they can't fire me if they never hired me. Right?

Thursday, March 01, 2007

Fat people

It's always painful seeing something you can't laugh at. A fat girl just tried to sit down in front of me but missed the chair. Half her ass planted and the rest of her body toppled over and hit the floor like a large steak being thrown on the ground by someone really angry. I wanted to laugh with everything I had, but instead I sat here and acted concerned. For the floor. Just kidding. Maybe some of you would have laughed and that just makes you an asshole. You should really work on your manners.

And I know its a sensitive topic, fat people are hard to tackle (get it? But really, you'd think they're top heavy but they go down like tequila made by a guy named Hector). Obesity kills and philosophically speaking, her fatness isn't even entirely relevant. What does it matter that she was fat? Her fatness doesn't MAKE her. Why couldn't I just say "a chic tried to sit down but missed the chair"? Deep below all the fat she's skinny too. So u know, why I gotta be like dat?

And the answer is: because I'm not fat and I don't believe in Jesus. Although I shouldn't be too proud. I am lucky to have a good set of genes. Everyone agrees that a large part of obesity is genetic. Everyone's metabolism is different and if you're going to blame people for being overweight go ahead and blame skinny people for being skinny. Because we all know at least one person who eats like a lawnmower and still manages to look like a heroine addict. They can't help it either. But then there are fat people who just gave up. And I think they're fair game.

Even though they apparently had to be a bit on the big side to give up in the first place. And then you know, the whole vicious cycle starts. Where they eat because they're fat, blah blah blah. But leading up to that there are precautionary measures to take. Like,

1. Not eating so much.
2. Eating less
3. Lowering caloric intake
4. Lessening eating
5. Eating not so much
6. Not so much, the eating
7. Exercise

And thats about it. With those simple measures, a profound portion of the obese population could be much healthier and better looking. Or at least good enough for above the shoulder photography. Eating well really isn't that hard.

I've trained myself to eat well and its pretty easy. I like it. For starters it keeps me feeling good and secondly it helps me shit. When I eat crappy food my shit reeks and it wants to come out at the most inopportune times. Then I have to shit in public restrooms because I'm hardly ever home, and wipe my ass with abrasive toilet paper that never makes me feel "clean" enough. And nothing disturbs me more than thinking I have an unclean asshole. It scares me of sweating because I feel like any sweat down there might mix in with shit, and trickle down my leg or something. So I eat well and drop one all-encompassing shit in the morning where I can wipe well and go about my day.

So I really don't see what the big deal is. I'm not going to give the whole "if I can do it you can do it" argument, but we only get one body and if you're going to destroy it, and least do it by something a bit more fun than eating like doing drugs. Food is the dumbest thing someone could screw up their body over. It doesn't enhance music, it doesn't make you more sociable, it doesn't give better orgasms or make you want to suck of a pacifier. It's food, it serves a purpose. Get enough of it in your body and go throughout the day.

That being said I still eat like a fatass all the time. What did you think I was some health freak or something? Hey If I don't chew my food does it become time released? Should I just stop chewing, like snakes? Is that how they're so skinny? I dunno, whatever.

So anyways, if you're getting fat. Eat less. Unless it's because of birth control and I direct that towards the ladies. If it is, keep taking it - it shows your man you care. And if you don't have a man then I don't why you're on it, unless you like to play a game called "I'll let you go just the tip. Oops you fell. Repeatedly".

Thursday, February 22, 2007

My first short story (rough)

The grocery scanner beeps twice, indicating a double charge. I don't so much notice. A woman with big breasts just entered the store. I trace her movement with my head and shove groceries across the scanner like Stevie Wonder at an autograph signing. She's curvy and nubile, like the perfect high school teacher. Or the perfect World War II nurse. I watch her white sun dress dance like curtains around tan silky legs; I throw her telepathic vibes, telling her come to register six when she was done shopping.

It's a busy afternoon in the market. I'm feeling horny and hungover. I tend to get exceptionally horny when I'm hungover, something about a night's worth of vodka leaking from my pours. Don't ask me what it is. She leans over to study the chocolate rack. Her breasts cling to her body for survival. I start imagining ways to lure her into the meatbox for some prime cut-

"Excuse me", a voice of gravel kicks in. "I think you double-charged me."

I look up at my customer for the first time. She's ancient, with hair that looks like it was cut by a parakeet.

"I think you double charged me on the prune juice" she goes on. "You see, I bought ten bottles but I count eleven on this screen..."

She points at the screen.

"I apologize ma'am. Let me take that off "

"And could you make sure my bags aren't too heavy? Here let me show you.... This will be one bag right hereee."

She scoots a bottle of prune juice over to a pack of gum.

"Anything for you ma'am..."

She nods then returns to reading a magazine she props against my register. One of the captions reads "Sixty is the new Fifty". Now Courtney is coming over. Courtney is a new hire, which means she still smiles.

"Courtney, could you come here real quick?"

She smiles and hops towards me like a posterchild for ritalin.

"Yes Mike?"

"I'm gonna piss, do you know how to work the register?"

"Well I've watched a few-"

"It's easy, you'll be fine."

I walk away. I don't need to pee to be honest but I'll be damned if stood bagging ten bottles of prune just for some weathered old tree when I could be working my youthful charm on a beautiful woman. Because of course, my supermarket encourages all its employess to give only the finest customer service.

I've been working at this grocery store, Overpriced Healthy Shit, for about four years now. I know all our little secrets. For instance, I know our trademark protein powder actually substitutes portions of higher quality whey protein with less effective casein proteins, passing it off as being more effective, when it's really like mixing beer with champagne. I also know if a customer's cherries end up on our backroom floor they'll go right back on the shelf, because only dumbasses don't wash their fruit.

I follow my afternoon cupcake into the cooking aisle. I stalk casually behind her and watch as she pauses to browse our selection of syrups. She scratches her leg and her dress rides up a little. I watch her pluck a bottle of chocolate syrup off the shelf and place it into her cart. What a kinky little kitten... I knew where I could pour that syrup and it didn't involve mil-

"Excuse me", a voice breaks in, "do you work here?"

I turn around to face a considerably large African American male.

"I was wondering if you had any blueberry preserves" he says. "I always get them here but I don't see any today."

This was a question I could easily handle.

"The blueberry preserves are temporarily out of stock sir. Something was wrong with the crop. We should have them back within the next two weeks".

In philosophy and science there are holy grails of things. The holy grails of logic, the holy grail of the universe - simple pieces of brevity that hold everything together and spell things out for us. In a grocery store this is a holy grail of an answer. Answers like these are what scientists get when they split atoms.

"Well maybe then you could explain to me," he goes on, "how you could carry blueberries in your produce section, frozen blueberries in your frozen section, but have no blueberry jam in your preservative section, if the crop so bad this year, or so you say".

I look past the man towards my chocolate feline as she moves towards the produce. I see her eyeing the bananas. In my head I'm bending her over them.

"Sir", I respond, "The blueberries used for the preservatives come from Mexico. I don't know what the Mexicans are doing, or how the weather is over there, but they haven't sent us any jam".

"So you're telling me you guys are out."


"You have no more blueberry preserve"

"That is correct"

"Could you check the back for me?"

"There's nothing back there"

"You can't be sure of that if you haven't checked"

"I'm sure of it sir, I was just back there"

"If you were just back there then how come I saw you on the register when I wal-"

"Hey look at this!" I say pointing at the shelf. "We have raspberry and strawberry jam sir. They're from the berry family."

At this point my afternoon cupcake picks up two cantaloupes and holds them both in each hand. She jiggles them up and down, trying to guess which is the ripest one. I could take it no longer.

"Did I ask for those?"

"No sir... But I know what we could do."



"Excuse me?"

"Do you want to pray with me sir? Because I was thinking, maybe if we just held hands and prayed hard enough, God will hear us and send us your blueberry jam.... on the back of goddamn unicorn."

He looks at me in disbelief.

"Son do you know who I am?"

"Noo", I reply.

"Mr. Abbot?" a voice calls out.

It was the voice of the lady I pursued. The man turns around.

"Mr. Abbot, oh my God it is you! I thought I recognized your voice. Do you remember me? You taught me freshman year!"

"Monica? Monica! My God Monica look at how you've bloomed! And what did I tell you about calling me Mr. Abbot? It's George."

"Monica, as I now knew her by, looks at the cantelopes she held in each hand.

"Well what are you waiting for sweetheart, give me a hug. But you better put those down before you hurt somebody."

Monica laughs.

"Oh, I was just trying to figure out which was the riper one."

"Oh I could tell you that" Mr Abbot says. "It's whichever one is the softest. Here, let me take a look at those..."

Mr. Abbot looks at me one last time.

"Forget about the jam", he says.


Back at the cash register I stare at the grainy peices of dry skin that hang from the elbows of the lady in front of me. I shove bags of dried fruit to Courtney on my right, who was now helping me bag.

"Young lady, do you think you could help me to the car with my bags?"

"Anything you want miss!" Courtney replies.

"No Courtney" I interject, "allow me." I toss a wink at the old lady.

We trade places again and Courtney gives me an odd stare.

"Oh my, I wish all the cashiers here were as polite and as handsome as you, young man." the old lady says.

I smile brightly.

"You flatter me ma'am. I'm afraid if you inflate my ego anymore, I may just float into the ceiling!"

We all laugh.

In the parking lot I finish loading the last grocery bag into the old lady's car.

"You know young man, you would make an excellent construction worker. You have that... look"

"I work out", I reply.

"That you do young man"

"Please ma'am". I point up at the ceiling.

She smiles.

I open her door and help her climb into the car, shutting it behind her. She rolls down the window.

"Young man, my eyes are a bit weak. What does your name-tag say? Ike... Tyke...?"

"It's Mike ma'am."

"Mike, you have just made my day. I will remember you."

Backing out she looks at me one last time through her rearview mirror. She waves. I smile, waving back. Her beige cadillac spits exhaust as it hovels forward, out of the parking lot and into the street. And with that, the old hag was gone.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Re: To All Gay Men

The first time I was ever hit on by a gay man, I was flattered. It was a pack of gay men, to be exact. They were standing outside church smoking their Marlboro light 100’s. My face was freshly shaved; my baby soft skin probably spoke of a tight anus. As I passed by, one of them whistled at me and said, “hey”. Actually, it was more of an elongated “hey”. More like a “heeey”.

Since then I have been hit on by many gay men. Women not so much. But gay men, much.

Well, yesterday things hit a new low. As many of you know, I work out. I know gay men like to work out, but I don’t do it because I’m gay. I work out to compensate for my very small penis. Anyways, I’m in the locker room at the gym when I see a dude standing there in his tighty whiteys. I recognize his face. He was the same guy who, just the day before, would not take his eyes off me while I worked out. At the time my first thought was that he was comparing himself to me. (Men at the gym do this to each other all the time; it’s actually a very non-gay thing to do. If men aren’t comparing their muscles to yours at the gym, you have a very long road ahead of you. Hopefully this road has a few cows along the way that you can stop and eat.) But then I realized there was a little bit more going on with his eyes. He was looking at me with gay eyes. I know this, not because I have a “gaydar”, but because I have good intuition. Get it straight. Literally.

Yesterday, as he sees me walking by, he immediately reaches down to adjust his boxers. Now, when men adjust their boxers, we do one of two things. Some reach down with one hand, grab their penis and shove it to the most comfortable side, ie, the left or right leg – or, we simply thumb the edges of our boxers and shake a little. Sometimes we combine these two motions for ultimate comfort. These are simple, common sense procedures, quite possibly genetic.

Instead of doing any of these two things, this guy (who was gay) grabs the elastic of his tighty whiteys, pulls it all the way out, downwards so that his cock flops out into my field of vision, back up again and snaps the elastic back into place – and the entire time he was looking at me.

Now, I don’t mind gay men. I really don’t. But everybody knows the rule that gay people mustn’t impose their gayness on straight people in a way that will make them feel uncomfortable. To this very moment I feel uncomfortable. Now I’m wondering what subtle things exist within me that would have made this guy conclude I’d actually enjoy seeing his cock rocket. Do I need to smoke more so that my voice lowers? Stop shaving? Carry a machete? Grab my cock every now and then and shout, “Feeding time bitches”?

So gay people, I know that I may have small hands…and yes the E channel is set as a favorite on my remote control. But not Bravo. And besides, I have a g-i-r-l-f-r-i-e-n-d. And she has boobs. And I like them. A lot. And I like explosions. And kung-fu. So please, step away from my little boy butt.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Cmon baby... just the tip

After a good 1 1/2 month long hiatus from working I've finally got a job. This time I'm doing something completely different from my supermarket gig, which turned out to be too hectic. They always wanted me on time and shit. So I went to Nordstroms to pick up an application. I figured I'd use my boyish charm and charismatic sales approach to sell large amounts of shoes to women who were preferably very very hot and soaking like maple covered pancakes in the nubility of their sexual prime. I really wanted that.

HOT WOMAN: Excuse me sir... you... the strapping young lad with the large pectorial muscles and arms - would you happen to have these in a size 8?
ME: Anything for you my dear. I shall return quickly...
(Returns quickly)
ME: I'm sorry my beautiful, beautiful cherryblossom of muse-like inspiration and bliss, but we do not have that shoe in a size eight.
HOT WOMAN: Oh, you charming young prospect of sexual desire and late night masturbation, the way you walked into that backroom turned me on so much, I nearly forgot about the shoes... Take me, take me young stallion, let me jump upon your harness and take me to a place where I will forget about my husband and four children. I want your horse cock inside me.

I felt I'd be a shoe-in for the job. (Look left, look right, OOH but it hits you anyways...)

So like, I walk into Nordstroms and I'm immediately turned off by the whole vibe. Everything feels so "proper" in a department store. White walls, silver racks, black cashiers with long press-on fingernails that makes it hard for them to pick up my change off the counter, where is my diversity? Where is my color? People tend to work well when surrounded by lots of color. I know I sure do. Most people don't know this but in kindergarten I actually translated the entire Bible from English to Latin, then I did some progressive work on the unification of gravity and electromagnetism. On the contrary, college professors don't decorate their rooms much, and this is why I suck at college.

So I leave and I'm walking by Bath and Body Works when a chic outside asks me if I needed a job. I tell her as a matter of factly I did. I fill out an application, take my interview, and get hired on the spot. Yeah... Bath and Body Works people. Can I get a hell fucking yeah for fragranced lotions?

The sweet part is, I've only been working there for a week and already everybody loves me. I work with a bunch of black and mexican girls, and my management loves me. They treat me like I’m indispensable, and in part I am. It's always good to have a couple straight guys around in a chic store. You never want to be that store where the boyfriend hangs outside while the girl goes in. It's bad for business. Straight guys make other straight guys feel welcome in chic stores.

But all that straight talk aside, I gotta say, my hands and lips have never felt this soft. I think the only time they were this soft, is when I popped out of my mother's womb, because nothing moisturizes better than amniotic fluid. Other than that, I've never felt this soft. My favorite product so far is the C.O Bigelow Mentha Lip Buffer, which has little beads in a cream that you rub between your lips to get rid of dead skin, then you wipe it off and I swear, your lips will never feel softer. I usually follow this up with a Propolene chapstick. I'm still experimenting with my hands.

So the verdict is that I like B&BW way better than Trader Joes. They respect the good work that I do, they pay me 50 cents more, and all I really do is stand around with and smile and make sure everything is stocked. And the one obligatory gay guy that works there turns out to be my and he's really cool. He's one of those happy gays. But not in a queer way, more like a happy way. He must get alot of butt-sex and I say more power to him. I'm all about people having sex.

Wait, I totally just thought of something... Without sex, none of us would be here... Wooah... Wooooah.... Have seeex... Haaave seeeex...

Put it in her buuuttt...

Friday, November 17, 2006

hopped on the bull

Every once in a while I like to get super hopped up on energy drinks for no reason whatsoever. Maybe it's because I'm c-c-c-razy, I'm not one to tell. The point is, this is what I do.

I figured today I'd get all hopped up. It'd been a while and I totally deserved it because I haven't touched any drugs in a while. Like days. And while I'm currently doubting how much journalistic substance there is in writing about getting hopped up on the bull, I'll write about it anyways, because I'm hopped up on the bull.

Which is, by the way, the one and only. Monster is pretty damn good and so is Rockstar, but nothing says "drink two of me and I'll give you awesome erections" quite like the Red Bull. Two is, by the way, all I need to be considered fully "hopped up". Drank roughly 1 hour apart. I pee neon and it dissolves porcelin but the buzz is totally worth it.

I drank my first Red Bull at around 5:00 pm Pacific Central Time. I downed it quickly and smoked. I love doing this, it feels awesome. As a matter of fact, it feels so awesome there should be street terminology for doing this. I'd call it "smoking the bull" but that sounds like a double entendre for something very very wrong and homosexual. So I'll leave you all to think of something.

One hour later I was feeling awake and abnormally randy. I attribute this to the red bull. Usually by 6:00 pm I'm either sleepy or horny, but never both. Before six I can be both, but by six I'm low on fuel and my body tells me I can only feel one thing at a time. What I actually feel depends on how many dead animal parts I've eaten throughout the course of the day. Red Bull is like dead animal parts in a can, so needless to say by this point I'm feeling pretty good, and thinking about lesbians.

I decide to drink my second Red Bull at about this time. I smoke again. I jizz a little. But I have to admit, after smoking the bull (no homo) the second time around I could literally feel the limits of my heart being tested.

I have a bit of a sensitive heart, you see. I can only have caffeine on days where I feel my heart is "up to it". When I used to run track, it was common that I threw up after I did my 100 yard sprint, because it was such a load on my body. I mean, I guess that's what happens when god takes the speed of a cheetah and injects it into two very lean and muscular legs, then calls their owner "Greg", but I'm basically like a fat guy in a healthy body who doesn't smell or have sweat stains wherever his clothes touch his body.

Ten minutes after my second Red Bull I felt like a sweaty fat chic was sitting on top of my heart and bouncing at an irregular pace. I was regretting what I did. It wasn't even that I couldn't sit still. That I could do, easily. I felt fucked up. Like I didn't want to get up. I sat in front of the library at school and drank water. Lots of water. And I could feel it go straight to my bladder almost immediately. Water almost never gets digested that quickly. Usually it takes on a bit of color before it decides to bail ship. Not this water. I think it came out exactly the same.

Two hours later and its about 8:00 pm Pacific Central Time. I find myself sitting at an open mic poetry recital with the rest of my creative writing class (hence the random poem, sorry about that) with my heart still spazzing violently. I watched as some old mexican lady talked about violence in Oaxaca. Pronounced "Waa-Haa-Kaa" - I know its so unexpected - sort of like how Jorge is pronounced "Hor-Hay". What's next from those crazy Mexicans, birth control*? While I thought about how little I cared about any violence that takes place outside a 25 mile radius from my house, I started to experience a tingling sensation all throughout my body.

Then I fell asleep.

Which is utter bullshit. Red Bull shouldn't make me fall asleep like that. How am I supposed to shake that sleepiness? Drink another Red Bull? Insidiously genius and perhaps intentional, or maybe its just my body. I knocked out hard though. And I think I might have snored because when I woke up some people were looking at me, and I have the tendancy to wake myself up with my own snoring and not even know it, especially when I go from wide fucking awake to REM in seconds, as I did today. So that was probably embarassing.

Sometimes I'll wake up to the tail end of one of my snores. It's really rare but it happens. Where I'll actually wake myself up with a snore, and still hear the end of that snore. It's trippy, almost spiritual.

Anyways, after the old mexican lady left the stage, I left too and went home. Since my spontaneous power nap I haven't felt tired in the slightest. It's 3:00 in the morning right now and I still feel the effects of the red bull. I just cleaned up my desktop and I sort of feel like dancing. But that's about it to report. This thing was really long. So that's it for my chronicle. I am going to attempt sleep. If I can't, I'll be dailing around for phone sex. Please pickup.

*To all my mexicans out there, don't be offended. I'm half Mexican, I can say that. George Lopez would do it. Besides, I'm totally down with you guys. I love your strawberries. For la raza, simon.