Saturday, April 30, 2005

Neener neener!

Samantha tagged me. I'm tagging Sex, TG, and Amber. Holler!

If I were a scientist...

I'd put the mack on honies, scientifically. I'd be fly, if I wore a lab coat I'd pop my collar. They got mad scientists, well I'd be the cool scientist. I'd be bringing ladies into the lab, I'd kick everybody out and tell them to give me a minute while I performed various experiments on various pleasure zones on the female body. I'd fuck around alot. I'd say to other scientists, "Yo homie, you're never going to figure that shit out, give up. Lets go play with baking soda and vinegar".

If I could be a chef...

I'd cook Top Raman and dish it out as gourmet soup, 12.50 a bowl. Stupid pretentious twits would never know the difference.

If I could be a writer...

I'd write children's novels because I figure I don't have to be very profound, or good. I'd just draw mouths and eyes on vegetables, give them names like Corkey the Carrot, Pablo the Potato (teaches ethnic diversity), and have them go on a magical fucking adventure. I'd sprinkle in very suttle sexual references, just to keep the parents entertained as well. This is how I'd make a fortune.

If I could be a musician...

I'd write horrible music, and when people spoke poorly about my art, I'd say, "fuck you, you just can't comprehend its majesty" and storm out the room. People would think perhaps I'm just some misunderstood genius, and scrutinize my work in an attempt to find some sort of method behind it. They'd realize nope, its just pure shit.

Okay I'm spent people.

If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a circus clown....(by Greg)
If I could be a llama-rider...(by Ogre)
If I could be a bonnie pirate...(By Teach)
If I could be a servicemember...(By Jeremy)
If I could be a business owner...(By Blue944)
If I could be an actor... (By Blue944)
If I could be a rich girl... (By V)
If I could be a witch...
If I could be a racer...

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Small and Insignificant. (Me, not the post)

If I tell you guys something do you promise not to tell anyone? Okay I"ll let you in on a little secret. I have a bashful bladder. It doesn't like letting go of fluids under certain conditions. He gets... nervous. If I'm in a public restoom and someone is standing next to me with no divider between us, I have a real hard time getting something to flow. Especially if its just me and him in the restroom. I just want to be like, "Yo bro, there's an open toilet stall over there, is it really necessary for you to piss right next to me you're invading my personal bubble here pal". I just can't pee under those conditions.

I have to bring out the jedi mind tricks. There is nobody standing next to you Greg. You are in a forest, there is a stream trickling nearby, inhale, take a breathe of that fresh air, you will be done in no time. Sometimes these mental exercises work, sometimes they don't. If they don't, I just pretend to pee, then I wait for the gay mofo who stood next to me to leave, then I hit the urinal once again to pee on my own terms. But if I'm drunk, I can pee with total confidence, anytime, anywhere. This all changed last night, however.

I was quite tips and at Dodger stadium. The bathrooms at the stadium have horse urinals, which for those of you that don't know, look like a long horse trough that everybody pees in. A good ole community pisser, it is the closest thing you can find to communism here in the United States. I figure I was drunk enough to pee hip to hip without suffering from BBS (bashful bladder syndrome). I find an open spot and I get ready to go. Before I could get a squirt out, a black man pulls next to me, and whips his.... this... it was...

Don't get me wrong, I keep my eyes straight when I pee but I still have something known as peripheral vision. Normally people's wangs aren't big enough for my PV to pick up on, but this guy's was like boooooooooooom. Shockwaves rang out and reverberated off the walls, the ground shook. I just stood there, staring at my twig while a big black monster unleashed itself on the outer rims of my vision. I couldn't get a squirt out.

How could I? I felt so small. I felt like hadn't even hit puberty yet. I felt like I were 10 years old. Slap a fucking Mattel sticker on my shit, I was working with plastic, a keychain, if my shit were a food item on a fastfood menu it'd be part of the 99 cent value meal, this guy was working with a Carl's Jr. 6 dollar burger. Fuck me... fuck me..

It never dies!

Wraaaa, why must my head pound every time i consume alcohol? I am the most inefficient drinker on the planet. Geez it feels like chipmunks are humping in my dome. I hate it when chipmunks hump in my dome. And my face is all red, cuz I'm half asian, so I'm a dead give away. I went to a dodger game earlier, so of course i'm gonna consume some spirits and get down with my boys in blue. I come home like 5 hours later and my face is still bright red. My mom is all tripping. "Greg, you've been DRINKING!". No mah, I'm just sunburned don't worry about it. I'm all trying to talk to the ground so she don't smell my breathe that would fucking ignite if i held a match to it.

"Put some LOTION on your face, you're so sunburned"

"yes mah, I"ll put some lotion on my face"

"You want me to do it for you?"

"No mah, I can put lotion on my own face"

"Okay, make sure you put some lotion on"

"Yes mah, I'll put some lotion on"

So yeah, my boys lost. But I'm not trippin, I'm not even a big sports fan. I just went to this game so I could get hammered, besides, what else am I gonna do on a school night? Study? Fuck that reminds me, I got work to do. Eh, it can wait till tomorrow. So how yall folks doing? Feeling good? Great.

Where my grandmas at? Woot woot. Gah I'm such a dumbass. Okay, time for beddy bed, sorry to all the rest of you folk who's blogs i completely ignored tonight. I leave delightful comments with you all tomorrow, but for now, its time for me to have pleasent dreams about nympho grandmas... The labido never dies.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Strangers aren't so strange!

I like to smile at strangers. I'd like to think little deeds such as this rekindle people's lost hope in humanity. Especially in LA, where on the same sidewalk a crackhead can walk past twitching like a rabid mutt, but wait - here comes a young lad and he's smiling at me. Humankind is beautiful! It can really brighten up someone's day. And today was just one of those days.

I was driving down Venice coming home from the beach. The sun was burning bright, I had the dreamy melodies of Starflyer 59 on my stereo, and to top it all off I was representin' with my funked out aviator sunglasses. No complaints. I was stopped at a red light and a car with 3 attractive, albeit not-yet-legal, ladies pulled up next to me. But what the hell, right? I give them all a glance and their window came down. "You're cuuuuute" they shout, giggle, giggle, yall know how it goes. I gave them each their own individually wrapped smile, thanked them, and was on my way.

Now this isn't a remarkable sort of occurance, but it made me feel good, and I mention it because I saw something of unspeakable beauty at the intersection of Venice and Sepulveda, and the little incident prior gave me the thought to do a little paying it forward, so to speak.

I pulled up next to a cadillac, the type your grandparents drive, so no surprise when I glimpsed two old people at the helm. It was two old ladies, which is a bit uncommon, but good to know two old madams can go cruisin on a Sunday evening. The passenger side window was down; hold on, old people driving with their window down? Peculiar. I was blasting my music so naturally, the grandma on the passenger side turns at me to see what all the ruckus was about. I glance over expecting to get a repremanding stare but instead, I get a smi- HOLY SHIT grandma you are fucking fine!

Really folks, this grandma was about as fine as they could possibly be, without breaking any laws of nature. I figured I should pay it forward. I turn off the radio, look to her and say, "Excuse me, I just wanted to say you look, amazing". She got so giddy, she started fanning herself and turning to her friend (who wasn't hot) for approval. She started showing me some Japanese anti-wrinkle cream she uses that was like, a billion dollars a bottle, and telling me how she exercises everyday. She was just so excited. Okay greenlight, bye bye granny.

It seemed as if i really really made her day. And that makes my day. And to think, all she ever wanted was someone to make her feel young again. I wonder if she still has sex...?

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Dooo Yoooou Reealiiiize? (i like that song)

I tried to follow my dreams, but none of them were coming true. Maybe I should stop asking my 8th grade teacher to juice oranges with me in the back of a station wagon. My dreams are a tad bit unrealistic you say? Well I'm not here to debate the philosophical nature of "reality", get the fuck off me. I'm here to be sincere, bare-boned and without any fronts.

And of course I joke about my dreams. I guess my non-literal dream, my future vision, is too blurry to even outline. But I do know two things for certain when it comes to my future. The first thing is, I will be happy no matter what. The second thing is, me and my wife will never fall victim to Fogey Talk.

What is Fogey Talk, and how does it come about you ask? Fogey Talk is bred by disgusting familiarity. When all has been said, when all mystery has been revealed, when you can damn near read each other's minds, words tend to become a bit superfluous. So Fogey Talk is grasping for verbal straws. It is the ground to tread on, after the entire ground has been tread on. To illustrate Fogey Talk, I give you an example:

Bob and Margeret are sitting at the table, drinking coffee, each reading a section of the Paper. Margeret says,

"It says here JC Penny is having a sale on sweaters"

Bob replies, "Yeah?"


End of convo. This is Fogey Talk, and I hope it never infiltrates my life. Is this so much to ask?

And then there is my second certainty - I will be happy no matter what. Unless I turn out to be a defeated old man, a Fogey Talker, in which case I'll be eating butter by the stick to speed me towards what bliss eagerly awaits me six feet underground. But last week I gave myself a little interview, er, Diane Sawyer interviewed me. I was just throwing random shit out there, but I started talking about happiness; it's unpredictability, its elusiveness, its high, and how the mere act of looking for it makes it harder to find. Ever since then I've been thinking alot about this matter.

Then yesterday I was in my ethics class, and the teacher wrote a quote from Viktor Frankl on the board. "It is the very persuit of happiness that thwarts happiness". It is called the "hedonist paradox". Since everybody has been "thinking" lately, I'll capitalize. What do you all make of this matter?

DredgtonE: oh god MUONS baby MUONS
Serferghrl: im trembling RIGHT NOW
Serferghrl: more, talk nerdy to me
DredgtonE: oooh god you're trembling like a wave collapse function baby
DredgtonE: let me add some certainty to your heisenburg principle, if you know what i mean...
Serferghrl: AHHHHHHHH
DredgtonE: ooh god i'm gonna split your legs like an atom and release more energy than two gold ions colliding
Serferghrl: oh god greg

Wednesday, April 20, 2005


My dad is so funny. He has this habit of making up words, without knowing he made them up, and passing them off without batting an eye. He was just on the phone and I caught him saying (in regards to retirement or something), "Yeah you've got to really guard them. You've got to be really guardive of those years". Guardive. What a useful adjective. Too bad it doesn't exist. Silly pops, he's a sharp tool but not the type one would want to use when cutting thick objects. I called him on his blunder and he said, "Hey man don't sweat it, I'm so sharp it blows your mind". "Okay dad, if you're so sharp then go cut the tags off my new clothes". Har Har!! Cuz I got new clothes. Hell yeah.

I love new clothes, because I'm a guy, and never get them. Girls buy clothes every goddamn weekend. And they buy new shoes like, everyday. I get new clothes about once a year, so when I finally get some new threads, some pimped out kicks, some bangin fabric, I can't help to feel so fresh and so muhfuckin clean.

I was actually contemplating a pink shirt, then I slapped myself for even thinking it. I'd probably look good in a pink shirt, but no one can just casually wear a pink shirt, there's always a motive. Usually the guy wants to say, "Hey look at me, I'm secure with my sexuality!" and even then, its not as if gay people wear pink. Homosexuals prefer to express their flamboyancy with purple or rainbow colored fabrics, not pink. So mainly the dude is just trying to gain brownie points from girls, but that isn't my bag. I'm not trying to illustrate my feminine side by playing DJ Switch-It-Up on the tables and blurring the lines of what is expected as far as gender specific colors go. If I wanted to brown-nose, I'd wear a shirt that said, "I Like To Cuddle" instead.

Yeah I like to embrace after I hump, is that a problem?

I like to tan as well, is this a chic thing to do? Sex called tanning a "metrosexual" act but I beg to differ, my love. Male or female, brown just makes people look better, so I'm gonna take advantage of this sexy pigment. And most guys will too. We're low key about it, we're not calling each other up like, "Yo bro lets goto the beach and tan... Lets fucking tan!". But what guy doesn't want a tan? Unless he's really fucking Irish or dark. Black people for example, aren't too crazy bout the beach. I've never seen a black dude laying out on a towel. NEVER. When black people come to the beach, they come fully clothed, smoke a blunt by the shore, look around at chics, then go home. That's it. That's all the business black people have at the beach.

White boy me is sprawled out on a towel with my board shorts pulled down to the outer rim of my pubes, reapplying tanning lotion every 30 minutes. Gotta get that tan. Pasty white is like, totally winter.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

I am, Batman

Not too long ago I joined Myspace. Yeah, I sold my soul to the devil but everybody else was doing it. At first I didn't post a photo of myself because I thought that was a loserish thing to do. I posted my New Kids On the Block (hollah) album cover and added all my friends that were patiently waiting for my arrival. And so things went. For about a week. Then I started questioning why I was holding back on a photo. People on myspace who hold back their own photos are either ugly or artsy pansy fucks, and I am neither. So alas up a photo went.

But my face is like a diamond, it shimmers from all angles, and just one photo wouldn't do this multifaceted mug any justice. So i upped two more photos so people would get a nice representation of my "essence". Next thing I know, I'm rummaging through my parent's fucking photo collection, looking for the hottest picture of myself I could possibly find. I didn't find anything that met the standards I set, but do you see what happens when you sell your soul to the devil? The will doesn't break, its chisled away.

And I was thinking, its kind of funny how quickly people own up thier good photos but disown the bad ones. Whenever someone sees a good photo of themselves, even if they look better than they actually do, they're like, "Wow that is so me. Dude that is, that is like the fucking ESSENCE of me. If I were blind and that entire photo were in braille, I would know thats my face just because it would feel so very beautiful." Then a bad photo comes along and it was a "fluke". "Dude who the fuck is that? That's not me. What's up with your camera man it looks liked I dipped my face in bacon grease and suddenly caught a lazy eye."

Needless to say, I didn't find that picture of me in which I looked like George Clooney. George Clooney, now there's a handsome chap.

George Clooney played the first Batman with nipples on his suit. But I wonder, does Batman's nipples really need the extra room? I can't imagine a situation in which Batman's nipples would get so stiff as to cause him extreme discomfort because they ran out of fucking room. Take my nipples for example. My nipples just go with the flow, they're not very demanding as far as spacial requirements go. But I don't know, this is me, and that is Batman. All I know is, I feel sorry for him when he gets an erection. Now THAT requires some muhfuckin room, if he's anything like me... Ya dig?

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Raw, Uncut, and Smell Like The Sushi.

I feel like its been a while since I've written something meaningful. Which isn't to say what I've said before wasn't meaningful, everything out of my gracious mouth is meaningful. But I like to touch on higher meaning every once in a while. I'd like to think an objective of good writing is to give your reader's brain a handjob, which is within the vein of mental masturbation, but with someone else's hand, it just feels better. The writer has the opportunity to tell other people things they're stupid to think of themselves, and as long as he doesn't sound condescending about it, they will be gracious.

I wish I could do that. What do I know, I'm just a 20 year old sitting here with a box of Nilla wafers and no milk. But fuckit, I want to blog something productive. So I'm going to do something I've always wanted to do. I'm gonna interview myself. So here it is, this is the raw, 100% truth from the horse himself. I will be playing both the part of Diane Sawyer, and myself.

Diane Sawyer: You're still living at home with your parents. How do you feel about this?
GREG: I'll get over it.
Diane Sawyer: So I take it you're not too crazy about living at home.
GREG: Of course I'd rather be by myself, I love being by myself, but I'm content here at home. Perhaps not entirely happy, but happiness is fleeting anyways.
Diane Sawyer: What do you mean by that?
GREG: Happiness is a chemical high, its a natural drug, and we're not built to feel it all the time. People seem to forget that and turn the quest for happiness into a constant journey, always looking for it. I always find my keys when I stop looking for them. But people will look to the point where they forget to simply be content, which is blissful in itself. Contentment is more neutral. It's a mindset, an outlook, a disposition which most don't seem to reside in simply because they are sad that they are not happy. But there's a whole middleground. I try to focus on being content, because what will make me happy is so unpredictable. Its amazing how often we're wrong when we try to predict our emotions, as if we had any say.
Diane Sawyer: So would you say you are content?
GREG: More or less, as long as I focus on what I have as opposed to don't have. Which is a total cliche, but it's true. There's a guy living in Hawaii right now who wishes he lived in LA, and there's a man living in LA right now who wishes he lived in Hawaii. Paradise is always over there, so as long as I'm here, I'll suffice with knowing that I'm living someone else's over-generalized dream.
Diane Sawyer: Living with your parents?
GREG: Living with my goddamn parents. But lets move on. Why don't you ask me how my show is doing on the WB?
Diane Sawyer: How is your show doing on the WB?
GREG: I don't have a show on the WB.
Diane Sawyer: Then why did you... I'm sorry, who are you?
GREG: My name is Greg. Keep the questions coming sweetcheeks.
Diane Sawyer: Okay, Greg. You say you've been to prison before, how did that change your life, if at all?
GREG: Here's some irony for you, the most vivid memory I have of prison is a dream I had in it. I was at Dairy Queen, trying to choose between a maple or chocolate donut. That was such a wonderful dream. I hardly ever remember my dreams, but in prison, I did.
Diane Sawyer: I take it was a rough time.
GREG: It wasn't physically rough, except for the shitting on a steel toilet. I was constipated, I hadn't shat in 5 days because I wanted stalls. When I finally sat down on that steel, I felt like my ass had frostbite. But prison sucked mentally, especially for precious little me. They try to do everything they can to strip you of hope, and they try to make life as routine as possible. I guess you could call it negative inspiration. Instead of inspiring inmates by giving them hope, they inspire them by taking it away. Which isn't very rehabilitating if you think about it.
Diane Sawyer: So how do you feel about the whole prison system?
GREG: It's not doing its job. Are we trying to turn these inmates into better people, or are we trying to punish them? The whole concept of punishment can get pretty rediculous if you ask me. It's like saying, "Hey fuck you Mr. Product of Your Environment and Genetics, we're gonna punish you and make you even more resentful". Now there's something to dig into.
Diane Saywer: What? The whole nature vs. nurture argument?
GREG: Yeah, it's totally gotten twisted. I mean, why is it that on one hand, most would agree that somewhere between Nature and Nurture lies the mold which shapes an individual and his actions; yet, when it comes time to hold people accountable for what they did, we throw all that out the window and blame them 100 percent? We go around blaming people so much for the way they are, as if they chose to be that way.
Diane Sawyer: Well haven't you chosen who you are at this moment?
GREG: Not so much so. Defining choice is a fine line to walk and an even finer line to distinguish. Certain "choices" I've made were so influenced by factors I didn't choose, it would be an overstatement to call them a choice. And most of the time, its not so much that we choose to be one way, but that we don't choose to be another. And by not making that choice, people say we therefore choose to be the way we are now. I'm not too sure about all that. All I know is, I like placing my nuts near my dog's tongue after I give him peanut butter.
Diane Sawyer: Excuse me?
GREG: Sorry this interview was getting rather bland.
Diane Sawyer: You seemed to be getting pretty intense there.
GREG: Which is why it was getting bland.
Diane Sawyer: You had me intruiged.
GREG: Are you going to ask me questions or are you just gonna suck my dick all day?
Diane Sawyer: My gosh, I find you truly offensive. Here's a question Greg, why are you so offensive?
GREG: Because I feel like it. Isn't that always the answer? Why did Marv Albert bite that lady's ass? Because he felt like it. Why am I offensive? Because I feel like it. I could always come up with a reason after the fact, but I'd be mistaken to actually believe it. I could say, "well I like to keep people on their toes" or, "I like to see people's reactions when I offend them" These aren't reasons, that's just me trying to put the words to my emotions. That's called rationalizing and I hate it because people so often convince themselves that some sort of logic came prior to their actions, when they really just did something they felt like doing.
Diane Sawyer: Aren't there times when we actually think before we do?
GREG: Yeah and those are the times when we actually think before we do. Good luck trying to distinguish between the two. Wanna smell my shoe? Then we'll go sniff some glue.
Diane Sawyer: Thanks for the offer but I'm quite alright.
GREG: Well I have some Kraz-e-glue and a sharpie waiting for me in the car. I'm gonna go get twisted. This interview is over.
Diane Sawyer: Wait Greg one last question.
GREG: What?
Diane Sawyer: Which way do you hang your cock?
GREG: To the left... Always to the left.

Friday, April 15, 2005

Ethnic spices

Santa Cruz was a nice little town, but nobody was joking when they said UCSC is a hippie's headquarters. Now, I like peace, nature, individuality and vivid colors just as much as the next man, but I can't say I'm down with that whole hippie scene - as "liberal" minded as I may seem. I'm not big on wearing clothing made out of hemp and I actually enjoy taking showers and keeping my shit fresh. So when I'm able to point out at least 4 different dudes with dreadlocks down to their ass within a very small proximity, I can't help to think maybe I won't fit in, and maybe UCSC isn't the school for me.

But Santa Barbera...

Now that's a fucking school for me. I usually don't regret anything, because I like to learn from my mistakes rather than grieve over the fact that I made them, but I did indeed feel some regret when I walked around Del Playa street in Santa Barbera. I regretted not going there when I could have easily gotten in if I actually applied myself in high school. But the girls, the girls... The girls... Oh give me some lotion and a tissue, the girls...

They were all so hot. Riding around on their bicycles in their spandexy tops (I love spandexy tops) and pajama pants, looking like they just got out of bed. I'll take them right back to bed those beautiful, beautiful women. And let me tell ya something about the guys there. They're all tools. They are your typical white boy/surfer dude schmuck. And that gets old quick. So basically I belong at SB, because I know these women are seeking some ethnic flavors and spices, and here I am. Beans and Rice to save the day. Get the fuck away from that steak, have some beans and rice instead. Steak is good, but there's a reason people eat it with A1 sauce. I taste delicious plain, and I mix well with other foods. Baby.

Speaking about my rice and beans, what would any vacation of mine be without getting hit on by a hooker? This time it was a transvestite hooker. I was walking downstairs at the motel 6, and he/she/it was walking up. I was a bit stoned and mentally slow at the time, so I think I staaared, quite unpolitely, at the figure walking towards me, trying to make sense of what my eyes were seeing. It was sporting gigantic hoop earings and hairy arms, that's all I can remember. I think this stare was interpreted the wrong way however, because as it walked by me it said in a deep voice, "I'll be in 205".

I kid you not.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

My brain is asleep but my fingers keep moving

You people are crazy, I swear. After four days on the road I come back thinking I'll read 20 or so comments wishing me a fair trip but instead, I get a bunch of children using my commentbox to talk out of their collective anuses. How I love you guys. Roughly 400 comments. There are three things I missed far too much on my trip. The first thing was soap, the second one was sleep, but the third thing was you guys. So don't think for a second I was too busy getting wasted to care about yall because the entire time I felt like an egg without a sperm, a sperm without a nut, a nut without a squirrel, a squirrel without any legs, in other words, incomplete.

Hot damn so let me recap. Annalisa is slitting her wrists, some haiku action, TG dedicated some Dave to me, Sex is wondering what I like on my triscuits, Christel ate some stale apple jacks, Jesus says hi, Jake is now officially hooked on crack, Jack isn't holding up any fingers because he was using them to type "Greg how many fingers am I holding up?", Pete is trying to hit on MILFS, Amber doesn't like melted cheese in eggs (as don't I), Annalisa wants to know my favorite curse word (FUCK) and went on about taking a shower, Sandy likes getting high off OTC medicine, is Luke a jew, TG likes pickles, and me and Sex have some serious sexual catching up to do.

That's about 1/40 of it. You crazy kooks.

So we came back a day early. It was unanimous, we were dead fucking tired. We were roughin it so much, taking *Mexican showers in gas station bathrooms, eating flaming hot cheetoes and drinking water for breakfast, sleeping in the car outside a motel 6 to save money, trying to light matches off my grissel cuz there was nowhere to shave. I can only be dirty and "rugged" for so long. If I feel dirty I feel ugly, and I hate being ugly! I don't care if a transvestite hooker scoped me out (that's a story for later), if I don't feel clean I can't feel pretty.

But I knew I would have to rough it out. It was a road trip after all. The plan was to hit a bunch of colleges and stay with people we knew. First we stopped off at Fresno state, then we headed up to Santa Cruz and smoked alot of pot, then we headed to San Francisco, then to Oakland, then to our final destination - Santa Barbera, which deserves a post of its own. Alot of drinking dispersed in between sentences.

I'm too tired to write about anything right now. But as far as the women went, they sure love us boys from LA. I caught a bitching tan and I saw alot of pretty trees. I like trees alot more now than I used to. Okay, off to bed folks.

* A mexican shower is when you only wash your face and armpits.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Hello children, I shall be going on a roadtrip until friday. Good ole spring break. Please show large amounts of sadness in light of my absence. Thank you.

Friday, April 08, 2005

Ain't No Tellin

My temper is like a gay dog. It may bark sometimes but ultimately, it just sounds cute. This is no secret though, people seem to know I lack the ability to become angry and some may take advantage. Sometimes my brother will sock me. Like any self-loving individual, I tell him nicely that he should respect my personal bubble. He socks me again. I give an apathetic, "stooop". He laughs at the cuteness and socks me again. This time I say, "stooop iiit" in hopes that the "it" will add the extra emphasis needed to make him stop. But he continues. Finally, I come with a quick sucker punch straight to his dome, and he hits the floor in a cold heap. Then I look at him with crazy-eyes and tell him that if I ever have to bust my knuckles on his face again, I'll knock the rest of his teef to the back of his throat. Cuz I come with that inertia homie, the muhfuckin 1,2... So you best step back cuz when I come, I come correct.

Okay I just made that shit up, he'd flush my head down the toilet.

Ironically though, when I was little it was having too much of a temper that was my problem. I had iiisues. I can't remember how many fights I had in elementary, probably about 5 good ones and countless scuffles. I was always beating someone’s ass. My most memorable fight was when I was in 3rd grade, yes... 3rd grade. I beat up a 4th grader who later, ironically enough, became one of the main characters in an action packed Power Ranger's spinoff show called Beetle Borgs on FOX KIDS. The story goes like this.

I'm chillin with my 3rd grade peeps on the courts after school. We’re just minding our own business, shootin some hoops and kickin it. Beetle Borg comes over with his crew of fourth graders, asking if we wanted to play a game of ball. I wasn't down for no perspiration, I was just trying to play my game of HORSE.

So I tell him, "nah".

He comes up to me and says, "Oh yeah? You don't want to play? What are you, sissy?"

I say, "Yo mama".

Homeboy just got dissed, so he grabs the ball out of my hands and starts running with it like a sissy boy. The muhfuckin’ chase was on. I catch up to him with the speed of a cheetah and kick the ball out of his hands, but Beetle Borg thought I was kickin at him, so he turns around and throws a swing at my pretty face. To make a long story short, they had to tear me off him. I could’ve shown mercy but there ain’t no telling what I do when I get the crazy eyes.

He started crying like a baby while I leveled off from my straight killah mindset, but I walked away knowing I’d just taught homeboy a valuable lesson. Don’t fuck with the G-reg (pronounced “Gee Reg”). Cuz I’m a gangstah. Now that I had regulated on a 4th grader, the news spread like wildfire throughout the hood. Next thing I know, I'm getting daps from all my peeps, while Beetle Borg was left shedding salt behind some dumpster where nobody could see him. I got suspended from school for a day, but if that’s the best they can do, then I laugh in their general muhfuckin direction.

Cuz I'm gangstah

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

You Pervert

It's no secret that us men are perverts, but if we're all perverts, I guess that makes us normal. So it's no secret that looking at young girls is a normal thing to do, for us perverted men. We have our little rationalizations like, "if there's grass on the field, play ball" or, "if there's no grass on the field, play in the mud". We're just looking for ways to ease what conscience we have, because we understand that beauty has no age, although society tells us it does. But I will tell you all right now, I will not let society dictate my conscience or make me feel unecessary guilt!

Like the other day I was at the beach laying out, coppin a tan. I saw the most stunning, and I do mean stunning, female walking in my general direction from a pack of young lionesses. She was walking towards me like a supermodel. I didn't know supermodel walking was such a breeze on sand but I guess this girl was meant to be. Her body told me she was well into puberty, but her face told me she was still tender and young. As she walked by she shot me a glance, and call me a bloody liar if you will, but this look had, "Hey college boy, I want you" written all over it. It made my bejoogles tingle.

That look has been saved for future reference..

I'd estimate that she was about 17, a junior in high school. Me, I'm 20, a second year in College. A mere three years difference, what's the big deal? I'd say there is no big deal. I mean, I wouldn't touch her with a 10ft pole, for the sake of my dignity, but that's all there is at stake really. Oh yeah plus the law. But I thought, what if I were 50 years old or so, and in the same exact situation. I see no reason to believe that I would suddenly not find this young girl attractive.

As if some switch flipped in my head, and a voice came on demanding that I no longer find young booty appealing. "Greg you fucking 50 year old pervert, you will no longer find 17 year olds attractive, stick to hag bags. This is your brain speaking." I don't believe that happens, biochemically speaking. Must be social parameters, and screw parameters. Right? Hey don't throw tomatoes at me I only try to speak the truth.

If anything, an old man should be even moreso turned on by youngins. Afterall, we want what we can't have and we miss what days passed yonder. Now my dad is starting to make so much sense. My dad has hit on every single girl I've ever brought over to the house. My mom thinks its a disgusting display of perversion, I try to learn from the man. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Once a pervert always a pervert. Beauty has no age. Just be careful where you put things. A message brought to you by the Guilt Free Conscience Society of America.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

And the beat goes on

I am no longer pissed off and cranky, I would like to thank all of you who gave hugs in the shape of vaginas. Nothing better than potentially mixed signals sent over the internet to get me going through my day. But I am still very troubled and saddened, due not to any self-esteem problems, or because it just isn't happening between me and LAFS. I can deal with real life issues, I can sort them out, but technical issues are a whole different story and as it stands, fucking DOTS are all Sex says she can see when visiting my blog.

Let me indulge you on the only two landmarks in my blogging history.

Landmark #1 OCT. 11, 2004: (an excerpt from)My First Post

"Someone once said, there are two types of people in this world, those who are cliche, and those who apologize for being cliche. So first off, I apologize for joining the herd of pretentious bloggers who think highly enough of themselves to assume that others are just brimming with excitement to get a peek into their geeky minds. I just had to do it. But I feel so gay for being a bloghog now, I mean let's face it, these things are just electronic diarys for those who think they're sneaking under the gaydar because they type their thoughts as opposed to penning them down in a book with flowery pages. But slap me silly and call me Susan because I have feelings too damnit!"

Landmark #2 OCT. 24, 2004: Sex Scenes at Starbuck's first comment on my site.

"I see you read shftA too. You're pretty funny too. I'm right with you on the poetry, next to reading about the fight some fifteen-year-old had with her mother, poetry is my least favorite thing on blogs. Don't care, never will. I'll check in from time to time. cheers"

I object to the adjective "pretty" in the second sentence, but I'll let it slide because I was still warming up then. I must also give big ups to Jack, for if it wasn't for him commenting on my site, I would have never found him, and Sex would have never found me. I'd give him his own landmark but I'd feel gay.

So ever since Oct 24, 2004 I don't think there's been a single post of mine that Sex hasn't commented on. She has read about me staring at my penis in the shower, masturbating in the shower, discovering masturbation in the second grade, masturbating to white walls, and last but not least, me masturbating to her. I like to think of her as my muse, in more than one way. How's that for a double entendre?

But its not just her readership I admire. When I'm feeling shitty she tells me she'll fuck my brains out. I showed her my picture and she called me beautiful - hot, cute, pick your flavor. And she said it with sincerity too, she wasn't just blowing hot air at me while she played connect the dots with my pimples. That's a lie though, because I don't have pimples. She may not know me in the 3rd dimension, but she knows my prose and every weakness, strength, insecurity that goes along with it, and it all mirrors another dimension of me, which is something none of my friends know, but she does. That's what makes her, and the rest of you, important to me.

And the cynic may look at these so called online relationships and deem them over indulgent or idealism at its best. But I'd tell the cynic to go fuck himself. We all have lives here and we all know better than to buy into something that doesn't exist, but something is created every time I read someone else's blog, be it a new understanding of them or the world, and a certain sort of connection is made. And who says it needs to be physical, or by sight, to truly exist. So we all keep coming back, like little kids, knowing better than to ask too many questions, like whether any of this is real, or fantasy, or a mix of the two. Do we care?

Who knows if blogger is filling a void, or if its all so damn fun we keep coming back. It doesn't really matter if you ask me. I just love writing and being read.

So fuck you blogger, for trying to conspire against us. Your lifeless codes and 100010101010010 drivel have nothing on me and Sex, nothing!

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Hookers in the forest

I've been so irritable lately, I can't quite put my finger on why. I suppose its that time of the month. The midol isn't taking care of my bloating, my cramps feel like they flew in first class from hell, and talk about needing ultra wings. Other than that, I can't imagine why I feel so quick to temper, but I do. I just feel like everything you say to me takes me one step closer to the edge, and I'm about to break. Everything you say to me takes me one step closer to the edge, and I'm about to break.

Even that line is pissing me off. Or at least it used to. When I first heard it I thought, if you're standing close to the edge, wouldn't the metaphorical straw that broke the camel's back make more sense if it were represented in terms of, geeze I dunno Chester, falling off the fucking edge? Why would anybody standing one step closer to a proverbial edge suddenly *break*, as opposed to fall off it. But then it occured to me that while I was thinkin in terms of cliffs or tall buildings, Chester may be refferring to the "edge of sanity". Plus it wouldn't sound as good if he said, "everything you say to me takes me one step closer to the edge, and i'm about to fall off". But shit, choose style over substance, sacrifice your artistic merit, I don't care.

I think part of my pissiness has to do with the fact that I just heard too many damn opinions over the weekend. That gets to me, especially because I don't hang out with the smartest of crowds. For some reason, be it the Pope's death, Schiavo's death, who knows what, everybody I was with wanted to talk about deep shit. I was hearing people's opinions on politics, religion, economics etc. nonstop. I hate that shit. I have a love hate relationship with other people's opinions. On one hand, I love the fact that everybody is entitled to their own opinion. On the other hand, i hate the fact that everybody is entitled to their own opinion. I've learned to keep my mizzouth shizzut in most cases.

But I'm not feeling too pissy. Actually I'm being histrionic, I'm not feeling pissy at all right now. As a matter of fact I feel good. Real good. Okay i need to stop touching myself. Now I just feel normal. And tired. Time to choke the chicken then hit the kitchen, get a bite to eat then goto sleep. Hows that for poetry, have you ever seen a hoe eat a tree?