A Stitch in Jon Saves Whom?
It's 1am and I'm leaving for Phoenix in a few hours. I want to say that I've strategically been getting my body's necessary sleep in sections all week in preparations for the time shift traveling forces on the body, but the reality of the situation is that my past few days have been harangued by drinking benders and work. I tried to make up for it with a several hour nap, but I was awaken around midnight by waves of crashing nausea, and now I'm sitting at my computer, feeling my temples contort in the most interesting manners. I swear that if there were an audience for this, I'd hear cheers at each flesh twinge or twist, much like the ones you hear on the fourth of July.
I am slowly becoming convinced that my brain is spasmodically trying to cut a hole through my right ear in an attempt to escape the hell I've wrought upon it. A few minutes ago, I went to the bathroom and stuck a q-tip into that same right ear in a veiled attempt to threaten my brain. It shall not escape my skull otherwise it will meet a cottony death struck by generic brand q-tips. Death by generics, I think, is more frightening than death by gradual sleep and alcohol abuse. I'm hoping my stay in Phoenix will cleanse my body of the toxins accumulated by nights of boozing and womanizing in this fucked-up Hicktown.
--------
N., earlier today, accused me of becoming the archetypical frat boy. I'm not quite sure what she meant by that. I don't pop my collars. I don't wear abercrombie and fitch, or american eagle. I don't own a buttoned-up shirt that had vertical lines on it. I certainly don't own anything that even resembles shades of pink. I don't wear baseball caps, or golf hats for that matter. I own only three pairs of shoes and none of them are Doc Martins, and at least one are Chucks. I wear Obsession cologne, mostly because a former roommate traumatized the scent of Cool Water, and a person I loathe is a big Curve fan, which is too bad because I enjoy Cool Water and Curve. I don't listen to bubble-gum pop, unless said pop has come from the early 90s or late 80s, and that is a terrible crime, I must admit. I own exactly three jeans. One is torn from a motorcycle accident, and the other two were bought off discount racks in discount stores. In short, I don't wear the frat boy uniform, but I'm giving off serious frat boy vibes. I guess drinking too fucking much and enjoying casual sexual encounters with random women make me look a bit like an alcoholic fuck of a man.
I really don't want to be the frat boy’s frat boy, even though I enjoy my fraternity life, and I tell myself that this is a temporary situation. When I remove myself from the college environment, I'll eventually leave the college lifestyle. And, I don't think that I'll miss all this enough to find myself wandering the streets of Fraternal Tempe, home of ASU, looking for parties to have and be had at. If such a situation occurs, I will email any one of my close friends and give them permission to promptly dispatch me, or at least find me a good looking girl who can fuck like a tigress and has the intellectual disposition and personality required to keep me interested longer than several rounds of coitus.
I believe my alcoholism is situational. Remove me from Hicktown and my drink consumption will plummet. This is the theory, at least. If I end up finding another group of hard-partying, hard-drinking friends, then I will continue to drink. I am a fucking social chameleon. While I have my own distinct, eccentric personality, which enthralls those close enough to me to see it, I also have a tendency to mirror the actions of the larger social crowd around me. This mirroring does not extend to clothes or other artistic tastes. I will not wear the frat boy uniform, or take the frat boy stance on most aesthetic pleasures. I will, however, act the frat boy act in a very Jon-way. And, in my Jon way, I suppose, that means being drunk and horny.
I probably should stipulate, or order to drown out the eye-rolls, tongue clucks, and head shaking cacophony that I can hear rumble much like a Honda Civic with its muffler lopped off, that I won't fuck everyone that can accommodate me sexually. I'll probably have a hard time convincing anyone of that, too, because I am a well known Man-Whore© who uses his winks and his supreme-master, elite dancing skills to shimmy and shake his way into some girl's pants. But, seriously, if I am to rock some girl's world, I'd like for her to engage me in conversation, preferably one that is coherent and inherently enjoyable on my part. So many of the girls I meet at my frat parties and in the bars are these vapid little things that are all tits and eyes with nothing substantial. While it is quite nice to have a body to copulate with, I feel that sex with them is the physical equivalent of beating off. I still get my orgasm, yet, after ten years of doing this, I still can't get my hand to engage in meaningful post-coital conversation. It just sort of exists and wavers on command. In retaliation, I cut off my fingerprint (although not on purpose) in hopes of communicating some form of sexual distress. Bitch, talk to me once we're both finished, and please, something that will keep my attention.
Consequentially, most of the girls I end up having sexual relations with aren't the best looking girls, but to be fair, they aren't the worst looking girls (although there have been a few who give me a warm, tingly sensation at the mere thought of them). The girls I do end up having relations with are quite able conversationalists and are able to keep my attention longer than the one or two hours a good fuck experience requires. I keep them on my AIM buddy list and every so often send out spastic glee in their direction.
So, yeah, I am a typical frat boy for time being. I drink. I smoke. I cuss. I'm shallow. And, I fuck. But, like most things, I do it the Jon-way, which you had better believe is the right fucking way.
N., I'm coming to L.A. for New Years, and you'd better believe I've got my game on. We're going to rock 2004 into oblivion.
---------
M2 sensed my distress a few minutes ago and rushed into my room bearing beer and goodwill. There are two things that make everything okay in Hicktown: a ticket out of hicktown, and alcohol. Granted, it's pseudo-beer manifest in the form of Mike's Hard Cranberry, but it's alcohol and I can feel whatever brain-cells I have left dying in a torrid alcoholic acid bath. That's what the fucker gets for trying to escape.
Mike's bottles come with twist-off bottle caps. On the bottom of these bottle caps are random words. The words are supposed to be used for drunken poetry. I have seen quite a few interesting examples, none of which I can recall at the moment. My bottle cap admonishes me to HOLD. I'm not quite sure what it wants me to hold. Am I to hold it in my hands? Am I to hold you in my arms? Am I to hold my contorting temples with my disfigured fingers? Am I to hold everything dear? I think I'm just going to hold on.
-----------
As is the case, every depressing entry comes with amusing anecdotes. I told K. to keep babbling while I wrote this entry. I don't think she realized that I was setting her up so that I could add something amusing to my blog. I shall now present Ninja Theory.
K: did i tell you the ninja story already?
K: doesn't matter, its a great moment in my life so i'll tell you again
K: ninja's are everywhere
K: they are responsible for all kinds of mishaps in our lives
K: most people are oblivious because the ninjas only change tiny things, so inane that most people wouldn't ever realize it was happening
K: but i know
K: and so, armed with this knowledge, and knowing that ninjas are true masters of stealth and camouflage, i went out to eat at a local restaurant
(Editor’s note: I’ve heard the story. I will condense it for you. K. went to a restaurant and met with a waitress who claimed to be a ninja. Ninja-things ensured and K. wandered off feeling quite replete in her Ninja Theory)
Concrete Hipster: http://www.realultimatepower.net/
K: lol already been ther
K: *there
K: that site isn't entirely truthful
K: ninjas aren't about killing people
K: its about the art of fucking up our lives in ways that keep us in line with the great ninja master and his plan
Concrete Hipster: You really aren't kidding about this ninja thing, are you?
K: hahahaha
K: no
K: i'm probably half kidding
Concrete Hipster: Have you seen a psychologist about your ninja problems?
K: hey
K: there could be a ninja in your room right now
Concrete Hipster: Do you hear voices in your head? Are they telling you anything important?
K: and you'd never know
K: that's all i'm saying
K: its POSSIBLE
K: ;-)
K: plus its nice to have something to blame stuff on
Concrete Hipster: Well, I hope my ninja is a very good-looking woman who enjoys watching me beat off every so often
K: 'what!!! the meter ran out!! i swear i had 20 minutes left! damn ninjas..'
K: it could be
Concrete Hipster: Now, I'd like her to manifest and give me head
K: if you hang out with you'll hear 'damn ninjas' a lot. now you know why
K: lol ninjas aren't sex toys
Concrete Hipster: Why not?
K: because they are ninjas
I am slowly becoming convinced that my brain is spasmodically trying to cut a hole through my right ear in an attempt to escape the hell I've wrought upon it. A few minutes ago, I went to the bathroom and stuck a q-tip into that same right ear in a veiled attempt to threaten my brain. It shall not escape my skull otherwise it will meet a cottony death struck by generic brand q-tips. Death by generics, I think, is more frightening than death by gradual sleep and alcohol abuse. I'm hoping my stay in Phoenix will cleanse my body of the toxins accumulated by nights of boozing and womanizing in this fucked-up Hicktown.
--------
N., earlier today, accused me of becoming the archetypical frat boy. I'm not quite sure what she meant by that. I don't pop my collars. I don't wear abercrombie and fitch, or american eagle. I don't own a buttoned-up shirt that had vertical lines on it. I certainly don't own anything that even resembles shades of pink. I don't wear baseball caps, or golf hats for that matter. I own only three pairs of shoes and none of them are Doc Martins, and at least one are Chucks. I wear Obsession cologne, mostly because a former roommate traumatized the scent of Cool Water, and a person I loathe is a big Curve fan, which is too bad because I enjoy Cool Water and Curve. I don't listen to bubble-gum pop, unless said pop has come from the early 90s or late 80s, and that is a terrible crime, I must admit. I own exactly three jeans. One is torn from a motorcycle accident, and the other two were bought off discount racks in discount stores. In short, I don't wear the frat boy uniform, but I'm giving off serious frat boy vibes. I guess drinking too fucking much and enjoying casual sexual encounters with random women make me look a bit like an alcoholic fuck of a man.
I really don't want to be the frat boy’s frat boy, even though I enjoy my fraternity life, and I tell myself that this is a temporary situation. When I remove myself from the college environment, I'll eventually leave the college lifestyle. And, I don't think that I'll miss all this enough to find myself wandering the streets of Fraternal Tempe, home of ASU, looking for parties to have and be had at. If such a situation occurs, I will email any one of my close friends and give them permission to promptly dispatch me, or at least find me a good looking girl who can fuck like a tigress and has the intellectual disposition and personality required to keep me interested longer than several rounds of coitus.
I believe my alcoholism is situational. Remove me from Hicktown and my drink consumption will plummet. This is the theory, at least. If I end up finding another group of hard-partying, hard-drinking friends, then I will continue to drink. I am a fucking social chameleon. While I have my own distinct, eccentric personality, which enthralls those close enough to me to see it, I also have a tendency to mirror the actions of the larger social crowd around me. This mirroring does not extend to clothes or other artistic tastes. I will not wear the frat boy uniform, or take the frat boy stance on most aesthetic pleasures. I will, however, act the frat boy act in a very Jon-way. And, in my Jon way, I suppose, that means being drunk and horny.
I probably should stipulate, or order to drown out the eye-rolls, tongue clucks, and head shaking cacophony that I can hear rumble much like a Honda Civic with its muffler lopped off, that I won't fuck everyone that can accommodate me sexually. I'll probably have a hard time convincing anyone of that, too, because I am a well known Man-Whore© who uses his winks and his supreme-master, elite dancing skills to shimmy and shake his way into some girl's pants. But, seriously, if I am to rock some girl's world, I'd like for her to engage me in conversation, preferably one that is coherent and inherently enjoyable on my part. So many of the girls I meet at my frat parties and in the bars are these vapid little things that are all tits and eyes with nothing substantial. While it is quite nice to have a body to copulate with, I feel that sex with them is the physical equivalent of beating off. I still get my orgasm, yet, after ten years of doing this, I still can't get my hand to engage in meaningful post-coital conversation. It just sort of exists and wavers on command. In retaliation, I cut off my fingerprint (although not on purpose) in hopes of communicating some form of sexual distress. Bitch, talk to me once we're both finished, and please, something that will keep my attention.
Consequentially, most of the girls I end up having sexual relations with aren't the best looking girls, but to be fair, they aren't the worst looking girls (although there have been a few who give me a warm, tingly sensation at the mere thought of them). The girls I do end up having relations with are quite able conversationalists and are able to keep my attention longer than the one or two hours a good fuck experience requires. I keep them on my AIM buddy list and every so often send out spastic glee in their direction.
So, yeah, I am a typical frat boy for time being. I drink. I smoke. I cuss. I'm shallow. And, I fuck. But, like most things, I do it the Jon-way, which you had better believe is the right fucking way.
N., I'm coming to L.A. for New Years, and you'd better believe I've got my game on. We're going to rock 2004 into oblivion.
---------
M2 sensed my distress a few minutes ago and rushed into my room bearing beer and goodwill. There are two things that make everything okay in Hicktown: a ticket out of hicktown, and alcohol. Granted, it's pseudo-beer manifest in the form of Mike's Hard Cranberry, but it's alcohol and I can feel whatever brain-cells I have left dying in a torrid alcoholic acid bath. That's what the fucker gets for trying to escape.
Mike's bottles come with twist-off bottle caps. On the bottom of these bottle caps are random words. The words are supposed to be used for drunken poetry. I have seen quite a few interesting examples, none of which I can recall at the moment. My bottle cap admonishes me to HOLD. I'm not quite sure what it wants me to hold. Am I to hold it in my hands? Am I to hold you in my arms? Am I to hold my contorting temples with my disfigured fingers? Am I to hold everything dear? I think I'm just going to hold on.
-----------
As is the case, every depressing entry comes with amusing anecdotes. I told K. to keep babbling while I wrote this entry. I don't think she realized that I was setting her up so that I could add something amusing to my blog. I shall now present Ninja Theory.
K: did i tell you the ninja story already?
K: doesn't matter, its a great moment in my life so i'll tell you again
K: ninja's are everywhere
K: they are responsible for all kinds of mishaps in our lives
K: most people are oblivious because the ninjas only change tiny things, so inane that most people wouldn't ever realize it was happening
K: but i know
K: and so, armed with this knowledge, and knowing that ninjas are true masters of stealth and camouflage, i went out to eat at a local restaurant
(Editor’s note: I’ve heard the story. I will condense it for you. K. went to a restaurant and met with a waitress who claimed to be a ninja. Ninja-things ensured and K. wandered off feeling quite replete in her Ninja Theory)
Concrete Hipster: http://www.realultimatepower.net/
K: lol already been ther
K: *there
K: that site isn't entirely truthful
K: ninjas aren't about killing people
K: its about the art of fucking up our lives in ways that keep us in line with the great ninja master and his plan
Concrete Hipster: You really aren't kidding about this ninja thing, are you?
K: hahahaha
K: no
K: i'm probably half kidding
Concrete Hipster: Have you seen a psychologist about your ninja problems?
K: hey
K: there could be a ninja in your room right now
Concrete Hipster: Do you hear voices in your head? Are they telling you anything important?
K: and you'd never know
K: that's all i'm saying
K: its POSSIBLE
K: ;-)
K: plus its nice to have something to blame stuff on
Concrete Hipster: Well, I hope my ninja is a very good-looking woman who enjoys watching me beat off every so often
K: 'what!!! the meter ran out!! i swear i had 20 minutes left! damn ninjas..'
K: it could be
Concrete Hipster: Now, I'd like her to manifest and give me head
K: if you hang out with you'll hear 'damn ninjas' a lot. now you know why
K: lol ninjas aren't sex toys
Concrete Hipster: Why not?
K: because they are ninjas
posted by Jon at 10:50 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home