Wait A Minute Wait A Minute Wait A Minute- You Took A Dump Where?!

I get pissed about things. Like, really pissed. I scream, I yell, I say absolutely horrible things I later regret (sometimes). I throw stuff, I break stuff, I'm generally terrible. I am by no means proud of this. I realize I have trouble controlling my anger, and I've worked hard to keep it in check. I have raised my voice exactly once to Baby, and that was in the middle of the "Biggest Fight We Have Ever Had" and she was yelling as well. And even though that fight was horrible, I didn't say anything abusive or hurl any insults or accusations I would later have to take back. I was just mad. So a year and a half with no other outbursts is nothing short of miraculous.

With that as the background, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the heavens that Baby was out of town three weeks ago. Because things almost got ugly. And it has taken this long to find the patience to tell the story.

Baby was in Chicago with family and friends at Lollapalooza, and I was stuck at home taking care of the cats. I wasn't stoked. Baby will tell anyone that listens that I hate them and I wish they were dead. That's not technically correct. If they were dead, Baby would be really upset. I wouldn't like that. But hate them? Check. Wish she had never owned them in the first place? Double check, circle, exclamation point, underline.

She adores these cats, treats them as if they were her children. The disgusting things they do and eject don't bother her in the slightest. She loves their neverending supply of cat hair, their incessant vomiting, their utter lack of shame when they lick their genitals. Recently the more tame cat of the pair, Lola, has developed a condition I've taken to calling Zoo Ass. How a cat of that size can produce turds that smell that bad is beyond me. The homeless guys that take dumps in the park don't smell that bad, and I've seen the things they eat. Baby will clean the litterbox, replete with the byproducts of Zoo Ass, and put everything in a plastic bag next to the trash can in the kitchen. The fucking kitchen! They don't make a pair of rubber gloves thick enough for me to take that load of trash out, so it just sits there giving me toxoplasmosis. That's about how far apart Baby and I are on the subject of what she calls "the princesses."

These god-forsaken animals and I have found a way to co-exist, we've come to an understanding. I stay as far the fuck away from them as our apartment will allow, and they make every effort to be as close to me as possible at all times. I don't understand it. If god should someday decide, in his infinite kindness, to give me the ability to lick my own balls, I would probably do it in private. But Lola and Jezebel (the most aptly named cat ever), make a point to puke, shit, shed, and drool on everything I hold dear, right in front of my face. Baby was gone less than an hour before Lola threw up on my Gamecube controller. And that was the best thing she did all weekend.

As Baby has never even introduced the concept of discipline to these animals, they have enjoyed free reign in destroying everything she has owned over the course of their eight malice-filled years on earth. Every piece of furniture is in tatters, every square inch of fabric covered in layers of cat hair and dander. In fact, the imminent destruction of everything I own was the sole reason I was originally hesitant to move in with Baby. But I told myself I was being silly. I decided I could train these horrible bastards. I am a complete fucking idiot. We talked about getting the cats a scratching post for them, but figured it was a waste of money. I told Baby that a surefire way to get them to use it was for me to treat it as if I cared about it, but frankly that's an experiment in spite that's probably not worth the expense.

About six months before we moved in together I treated myself to a brand new bed and boxspring. I've had back problems for a few years now, and my parents offered to give me a few hundred bucks to buy a better bed. I took that money and applied a considerably larger sum of my own to buy what is, in my estimation, the most comfortable bed on earth. Can you tell I'm proud of it? But Baby loves it as well, and I brought it to the relationship like a dowry.

The cats immediately set up shop under the bed, as it's the darkest place in the apartment. I put boxes and things under there to keep them out, because it's a pain in the ass to clean under there after they've been camping out. But they just squeezed their way in between the boxes, or nudged them all out of the way. So I gave up. What else could I do?

The first night Baby was at Lollapalooza I fell asleep with the TV on. I woke up around 8am, hungover, to a strange sort of scratching sound. The TV was on but I could tell it wasn't coming from there. I sat up and Jezebel hauled ass out from under the bed and into the living room. I went back to sleep. I woke up a few hours later to feed them, and Jezebel didn't come out to eat. I went looking for her, and I found what she'd been doing. She'd clawed a hole out of the boxspring from underneath, maybe the size of a baseball. As she's a gigantic fatty (I bet you could have guessed that Baby doesn't exactly feed them a healthy diet- Jezebel's favorite is McDonald's french fries), I didn't even consider the possibility that she had climbed through the hole. I went around to the other side of the bed to check over there and I heard her hissing at me.

Now let me explain about the hissing. Jezebel hisses at everyone and everything. I'm sure that, in her kitty eyes, she's the baddest motherfucker that ever lived. But in reality, she is an incredibly overweight sissy of a housecat that has never, in her entire life, put a foot outside her apartment. The hissing just pisses me off. You're the fattest cat anyone has ever seen and I'm still ten times heavier than you, you piece of shit. I can kill you with my bare hands and make mittens to use to strangle your sister.

So anyway, hissing. But I couldn't figure out where she was. She does both scratch and bite, so I wasn't stoked about sticking my face under the bed to take a look. Still, the hissing was making me mad and I was sure she was up to no good. I got down on my hands and knees and realized that not only had she climbed into the hole in the boxspring, but she had worked her way all the way across to the other side of the bed and had apparently gotten stuck. Usually she runs when she's been caught doing something bad, but I could see her in there, her big fat ass causing the fabric to sag. I got worried, fearing she was stuck and had somehow hurt herself. I considered calling Baby, but figured it was best to try to get her out on my own. I poked her, I yelled at her, and I finally crawled under the bed and actually lifted her, inch by inch, until she got back to the hole and made a run for it. I chased her around the apartment and cornered her, and I just unloaded on her. Literally.

We keep a squirtgun full of water for situations like this. Jezebel hates the squirtgun. When she gets squirted she knows she has done something wrong. So she got more than a mouthful of water, and a serious lecture. I would never actually physically harm these cats, as they're only animals. But I gotta tell you that shooting Jezebel in the face with a squirtgun brings a level of satisfaction that honestly scares me. When I'm done punishing her I put the gun down and go to find Lola. I want her to know that all the yelling is not about her, and try to make her feel better. She's incredibly timid when she's scared, and I didn't want her freaking out on me. But I looked and looked and I couldn't find her anywhere. Exasperated from my fight with Jezebel, I just gave up. I went back into the bedroom to lie down.

I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke to the terrifying and unmistakable smell of Zoo Ass. The cats, to their credit, are generally good about using the litter box, so this was unusual. I searched the bedroom and couldn't find Lola anywhere. To be certain that Zoo Ass wasn't contagious, I went to find Jezebel. I found her alright, crouching under the kitchen table. She obviously hadn't forgotten about the squirtgun incident, because she literally spit at me, like a fucking camel, when I got close to her. I didn't even know cats could do that. Having learned something new, I made an informed decision to immediately stop fucking with Jezebel.

Back in the bedroom the smell had gotten worse. With an overwhelming sense of dread I checked under the bed and discovered that a) Lola was now stuck, and b) Lola had taken a dump inside the motherfucking boxspring.

I lost it.

I shouted. I threw whatever I happened to be holding (I don't remember). I tore the covers off the bed. I lifted the mattress off the frame. I lifted the boxspring, with Lola still in it, and turned it on it's side. I heard her dig her claws in and climb, upside down, to the part of it that was resting on the ground. I heard the turds rattle around. I swear to god I heard the blood boil in my ears. I went to get a knife.

I learned that I am a man of tremendous restraint. I opened my preposterously sharp knife and cut the fabric from the bottom of the boxspring. Inexplicably, I took care not to fucking murderize Lola. There is more than one way to skin a cat. I considered all of them. But in the end I cut every inch of fabric from underneath, giving them nowhere to hide and no place to take their secret dumps. Lola, obviously terrified, didn't move the entire time. She cowered in the bottom of the boxspring, her turds of hell in piles around her. I finally had to flip the boxspring yet again and force her to drop out. Of course, I also dumped the turds onto my carpet.

You've had bad days in your life, days where everything seemed to go wrong. But honestly, has it ever been so bad that the best thing to happen to you all day was to have the good fortune of accidentally discovering an easier way to clean up catshit?

A Cry For (Marketing) Help

I dream the big dreams. I'm a man of ideas, a virtual wellspring of outside the box. I am, fairly regularly, struck with brainstorms so revolutionary, so remarkable, so sure thing that it's practically a miracle that I'm not obscenely wealthy. But it dawned on me today that it's no coincidence that I haven't struck it rich. Something has been holding me down. And, for the sake of argument, let's rule out the abject laziness and utter lack of anything resembling ambition. Instead, let's blame girls.

The dreaded ex, Osama bin Megan, was particularly adept at destroying my dreams (go figure). Over the course of our something like twelve years of sometimes loving, most times hating each other she shot down the following three brilliant ideas that would (or will) later make someone else rich:

1. The bendable toothbrush. I actually got so psyched about this idea that I made a special trip to the grocery store AND the drug store to see if any such product was on the market. It wasn't. I called her and told her about it. She scoffed. Now they're everywhere, and I don't have a dime. Just think of all the relationship counseling we could have afforded with those millions. Yeah, I know, probably not enough. Still, I blame you.

2. The reverse microwave. Everyone claims to have invented this, so I don't know if I can really get all that upset about it. But I'm putting it on the list because, honestly, there can never be enough reasons to blame another people for my station in life. Honestly I can't even figure out why she wasn't more supportive of this one, as it would have been the perfect place to store her cold, black heart.

3. Band Aids for black people. This one is really good. At least ten years ago it occurred to me that it was awfully racist to only have Band Aids in that fleshy color that matches Johnson & Johnson's vision of the ideal master race (that's right, I said it). What we need are some Band Aids for people of color. The recent rapid growth of the Hispanic population in America only makes the need more urgent. And here is the real genius- imagine the secondary market for white kids who want to be black? We could have made billions. But alas, she said it was stupid. Doesn't that make her a racist? Yeah, I think so, too.

I thought I had found a true supporter in Baby. She's been so great to me in so many ways, of course she would be willing to do all of the legwork (and research, and investing, and production, and marketing, and so forth) for my next big idea. Boy, was I wrong. Here is the deal:

Baby watches the Today show every morning before work. I have no choice but to get roped into it. My least favorite guests are the people pushing self-help books for every imaginable malady. So I'm watching one of these idiots this morning and I realize I'm imminently qualified to write my own self-help book. I have issues doctors haven't even found names for yet, and I've overcome no small amount of personal misfortune. Plus my self-righteous streak is a mile wide. Fuck it, I says to myself, I'm writing a book.

I explain the concept to Baby, and she doesn't even consider it. In fact, she flat out dismisses it. "You're not gonna stay pissed about this like the black Band Aids thing, are you?" Fine, I will do it without her help.
Here is my idea, tell me if I'm an idiot:

My self-help book will be titled "Things Will Probably Be OK (But They Could Get Much, Much Worse)." It will be a smartass' guide to dealing with anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, hypochondria, and depression. Each chapter will contain one of the valuable lessons I've learned in life. A selection of chapter titles:

"Never, Ever Graduate From College"

"Germs Can Certainly Kill You, But So Can Everything Else. As Such, You're Only Wasting Precious Seconds By Washing Your Hands Every Ten Minutes"

"Can You Please Explain To Me Why You're Afraid To Touch The Doorknob In A Public Restroom, But You're Perfectly Fine Having Unprotected Sex With Girls You've Only Just Met When You're Out Drinking?"

"Finding A Girlfriend Who Has Her Own Well-Documented Issues Might Seem Like A Good Idea In Theory, As You Will Have Someone To Commiserate With. But In The Long Run You Will Realize That You Hate Other Crazy People Even More Than You Hate Yourself"

And finally-

"Don't Tell Anyone I Told You This, But Suicide Is Always An Option"

I'd be stupid not to do this, right?

Dear Washington Nationals, Go To Hell

Here are ten things the Washington Nationals can do to stop sucking.

1. Start winning games. I realize this might seem like an obvious solution, but apparently it has not dawned on the Nats that the object of baseball is to score more runs than your opponent.

2. Refuse to let anyone into RFK stadium wearing a jersey worn by the opposing team. This one should be easy enough to enforce. When the Yankees, Mets or Phillies are in town, you can effectively keep the gates closed. No one is coming to root for the Nats anyway.

3. Move the team to somewhere in the vicinity of New Jersey. We're not talking about a serious downgrade here, as the team currently plays on the banks of the Anacostia River. And judging by the way these fat sons of bitches from Jersey pound hotdogs and swill Miller Lites at games when the Mets are in town, the team stands to make a fortune at the concession stands.

4. Consider fixing the clock high above home plate that has been broken since my childhood. This would be particularly helpful for the 20,000 Virginians who come to each game, as it will help them get home in time to watch The O'Reilly Factor.

5. Install microphones at every concession stand, and monitor all conversations. Track down every fat, white asshole from the suburbs who is rude to the kids working behind the counter. Take their privileged, ungrateful children out of whatever private school they attend and force them to grow up in Southeast. Make them work their summers at a grill in 100 degree heat cooking hotdogs for insensitive assholes for minimum wage. Then, once they've gained perspective, fucking murder every single one of them.

6. Find the idiot who spent money fixing the PA system that blares music throughout the upper deck, and fire him. We liked it better when all we could hear was the crowd and the game. No one needed to hear Babe Ruth's theme song to know he was coming to the plate.

7. Speaking of music, be made aware that the lyrics to Fall Out Boy's "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" are "...and sugar we're goin' down swingin'." Someone tell catcher Brian Schneider, who has recently 'raised' his batting average to .236, that he may want to pick out a new theme song.

8. Find the guy who was selling t-shirts in front of the stadium this weekend that simply said "Mets Suck," with the sales pitch "It's never too early to start teaching your kids poor sportsmanship" and give him a job. He's better than anyone you have in your marketing department.

9. Consider promotions and games between innings for people who don't happen to be sitting in the ten most expensive sections in the stadium. As thrilled as that lawyer's kid who gets a free t-shirt from Screech every game seems to be, I'm willing to bet the Boys Club of Northeast that's sitting in the upper deck would appreciate it more.

10. If you have bobbleheads next year, and you make the last one of the set Screech, but you make it only available to kids under 12, and you don't advertise that fact, and season ticket holders show up with a screaming hangover and don't get one, and then they show up on eBay for $115 two days later, I'm going to kidnap one of YOUR goddamn children and get my fucking doll. Watch me.

It's Even Hotter In Hell, You'll See

More short ones-

This might come as a shock to everyone, but it gets hot in DC every August. I know that sounds crazy, but it's true. And sometimes, it gets really hot. Other times not so much. And we measure the temperature through something called an average. See, actual temperatures fluctuate around the average. So some days we're above, some days we're below. When it's ten degrees hotter than usual, that's not an emergency. They don't cut into the Simpsons with Breaking! News! Updates! when it's 68 in April. So they probably shouldn't do it when it's 98 in August. I appreciate that you're sweating, and you're pissed. I hope it gets worse and you fucking move. Because if I see one more fatty on TV bitching about the unbearable heat I'm going to scream. We all feel really sorry for you, because you're braving the oppressive elements to make your daily slouch from your McMansion in Fairfax to your SUV in the driveway, and the trek from your covered parking garage in Reston to the 68 degree mausoleum-styled nuclear missile building defense contractor's factory of death where you earn your six figure income defrauding decent Americans of their freedom and liberating Iraqis of their lives. Fuck off. Sweat with the rest of us.

--

I got stuck in the elevator in my office at about 8am on Monday. When I was younger I suffered from acute agoraphobia. I can safely say I don't any more. We were probably only stuck for about a half hour, but there was no ventilation and the two women in there with me were handling it with varying degrees of insanity. One woman kept drinking her hot tea from Starbuck's to stay 'hydrated.' The other kept calling the emergency help desk on the elevator phone thing. Each time the operator said, "Help is on the way, call back in 3 to 5 minutes to check in." Each time the lady waited 90 seconds and called again. I stripped down to my tshirt to try to cool off and called Baby to curse my luck. We were finally 'rescued' when a repairman, without warning, made the elevator drop a floor and a half and let us out. I thought for sure we were plummeting to our deaths. But alas we lived. Once we got our he informed us that due to security measures, we couldn't use the stairs to go UP to our offices. We had no choice but to get back on the elevator. Awesome. I finally got to our office and passed a VP in the hallway. I was covered in sweat and wearing a tshirt. A hour later HR sent an email to all staff members reminding us we must stick to our business casual dress code even in the heat. I hit Reply All but quickly hit Delete. I'm telling you, it was close though.

--

Baby is leaving for Lollapalooza this afternoon, and she won't be back until Monday. I literally have no idea what to do with myself. I don't know what I'm going to eat. I don't know where I'm going to go. I don't know what I'm allowed to watch on television. I don't know where the following things are: cat food, cleaning products, stove, dignity. She's actually going back to Chicago again next weekend. If I don't die of scurvy it will be a miracle.

--

Twice now in the past month or so I have been on a Metro train with a guy holding a bag of rotting fish. The first time was before a Nats game, when I picked up Baby at Federal Triangle. The smell of fish was overpowering on the platform, but we figured it was something at the station and we could escape it when we got on the train. The combination of rush hour and the Nats crowd made it hard to tell where the smell was coming from, so we just jumped in the first car of the first train that came by. We were packed in, but I was positive that I could still smell it. Baby tried to convince me that it was just still in our noses from the platform, but I could still smell it over the general reek of rush hour Metro. Sure enough, when we finally got to RFK a guy got off the train carrying a plastic shopping back that must have been the source. This is not a fishy smell as if he'd spent the day fishing and had his catch in his bag, mind you. This was at least a day old, and rancid. Same situation (different guy) happened a week or so later, this time between L'Enfant and Convention Center. Same plastic bag. What the fuck is going on here? Can you imagine what would possess you to bring rancid fish on a Metro train? Was this an act of terrorism or something?

A Series Of Updates, None Of Which Are Very Funny

Nothing new going on really. A few funny things have happened recently. Not haha funny. More like yikes funny.

One day last week the blind woman that makes the same Metro commute I do got on the train right as the doors were about to shut. I had long since sat down, and someone sat next to me in the aisle seat. This woman (who I once saw trip another young girl with her cane/stick/poker thing at the L'Enfant station- awesome) makes it onto the train and tries to fumble for a seat. Nobody gives her one. How classy is that? So she has to try to find her way down the aisle with her poker and she ends up just fucking ringing her head on the center pole. I mean, it sounded like a fucking church bell. I couldn't help it, I laughed. But come on, it was pretty funny. Of course I know I'm going to hell, but no way I can be as bad as the people who couldn't be bothered to let her have their seats. But wait, I did immediately wonder if maybe she hit her head so hard that she could see again. Okay, maybe I'm just as bad as the rest of them.

The other day at work I (and everyone else in the company, inappropriately) received an email advertising a pair of tickets to see the Indigo Girls at Wolf Trap. I was on the phone with Baby at the time, so I asked her in my always inappropriately loud voice if she wanted them. Baby likes one female singer. Joan Jett. That's it, that's the list. Indigo Girls is not exactly her thing, but we had a laugh because neither of us knew the Indigo Girls were even still alive. The following day the girl that sits directly across from me was telling a friend who dropped by how much she loved the Indigo Girls show last night and, like, oh my god thank you so much for the tickets!

I had extra tickets to the Nats game on Sunday and nobody to go with. So I screwed up my courage and went by myself. I have never been to anything like that (including movies) by myself before, so this was quite an accomplishment for me. I celebrated by selling my three extra tickets for beer money and drinking by myself in beloved Section 470. Not long after I sat down the people who ended up buying my tickets from a scalper showed up. We shared a laugh, and the woman with them swore she knew me from somewhere. After a lot of guessing it turns out she's seen me at the Black Cat before. No shock there. I spend most of the afternoon talking to her fiance, but a good deal of the time speaking with her as well. They've both very nice. As the game ends we're all pretty drunk, and we shake hands and exchange nice to meet yous. She then kisses me on the cheek. Awkward! This woman isn't European, and we're at a baseball game and sweating, not in some hipster hang out. I had no idea what to do, I was literally paralyzed. And from the look on the fiance's face, he wasn't stoked either. What the fuck was that all about?

At the same game I stumbled to the bathroom and somehow ran into the latch that they must apparently sometimes use to lock the entire bathroom. I use this bathroom 20 times a week, and I'd never noticed it before. It's on the outside door that leads into the concourse, and it's jagged and rusty. It took a chunk out of my arm. I am, without a doubt, dying of hepatitis and lord knows what else. Seriously, every time I think about it I want to pass out.

News reports came out yesterday warning that the drug I take to treat my leukemia causes congestive heart failure in a small number of people who take the drug. Because hypochondriacs with leukemia got nothing else to worry about. Concerned friends sent me the news articles all day. Luckily for my hypochondria, the symptoms of congestive heart failure include really distinct things like being tired and sometimes coughing. Each time a new email came in I climbed a little further out on the ledge. But then my dad called me to tell me he'd heard that my drug might cause congestion, so I should be careful. Thanks pops, good looking out.

Midget Porn, While Awesome, Is Not For Me. Thanks Though.

Baby made a very astute observation the other day. "All your friends are assholes" she says. Short, direct, and absolutely true.

At some point, many years ago, some still-unknown friend put my name and address on some porn mailing list as a joke. And not good porn, either. We're talking low budget, weird stuff. Midgets, old ladies, pregnant ladies, she-males- you name it. If it people whack off to it, they sell it. Awesome. Mind you, we used to do that stuff all the time. Wait, not whack off! Ok yeah, I guess we did ('did,' who am I kidding?) do that all the time. But no, about the mailing lists. I can't even imagine the postage on the metric tons of filth I had delivered to the fathers of all the girls that ever dumped me. But the statute of limitations has passed on that (almost), and anyway that's probably untraceable.

Back to the story.

So periodically I get these gnarly fliers and print catalogs that have pictures of the covers of all these movies. They come in a thin, paper envelope that I'm sure is deliberately just see-through enough for you to be able to tell there is dirty shit going inside. Even better, there is a customer number right above my name and address on the mailing label. This gives the appearance that I've purchased something from them in the past. Nice touch, but everyone knows that only amateurs actually buy porn. Why do you think God invented the interweb?

Anyway, these catalogs have found me everywhere I've moved. Because they're in the envelopes I guess they get the forwarding orders. It's honestly been like 8 years by now. If I don't have hepatitis just from handling the fucking things it's going to be a miracle. You'd think they'd give up as I never buy anything. But nope, I guess they're waiting for that one particularly hot cover shot of Pregnant Bitches to spur an impulse buy. Thankfully I've held out so far.

They were a nuisance enough when I lived alone. But now that Baby goes through the mail I've decided I need to get rid of these once and for all. I made that decision when Baby opened one and spent the next twenty minutes critiquing the pictures. I decided that if Baby can't make midget porn hot, nobody can. Plus if she gets hooked on this stuff that just can't end well.

So I called up the phone number that's on the front of the envelope, but it went right to voicemail. And by voicemail, I mean some dude's answering machine. No chance I'm leaving a message. So I went to their internets. Lo and behold they have all kinds of good porn on the website. These girls are cute. And not pregnant. Why the hell don't I get catalogs full of this stuff?! What kind of fucked up mailing list did someone sign me up for? "No, no, bryc3 doesn't like hot chicks. He likes fatties." God damn it.

I find a "Comments" form and send them an email. "Dear So and So, please remove bryc3 from your mailing list because he's dead. Thanks. But PS, his surviving relatives wouldn't mind getting the hot chick porn catalog. And does he get some kind of long-time member discount?" Just kidding about that last part. Except not really.

I never got a reply to that email, but I haven't received any new catalogs, either. Baby did call a locksmith and had a special doorknob placed a few feet below the one on our front door. I wonder what that's all about.

What Do You Mean I Grab Your Butt Too Much? I LOVE You!

Maybe I'm weird. Maybe I'm a jerk and a pervert and disrespectful. Maybe I have problems. Or maybe I'm normal. I honestly don't know.

Doesn't everyone else grab their girlfriend every chance they get?

Not in public. Not in front of her parents or our friends. Not in her nono parts. But definitely in our apartment, often about her curves, and always when I haven't seen her in a while. I simply cannot keep my hands off of her.

It doesn't bother her. She teases me about it. She thinks I'm weird and she laughs and tells me to keep my hands to myself. But she doesn't get mad, or push my hands away. I think she secretly likes the attention, and like I said it's not overly sexual or suggestive.

Yet the other day I playfully suggested I would write in my blog to ask if this was normal behavior. She was all for it. Am I weird? Do you do this with your girlfriend? Does your boyfriend do that with you? Is it good? Bad? Do I need therapy? Am I some kind of sex pervert?

Is this the kind of thing she's going to tolerate while we're happy, and fucking hate when we're not? One of those idiosynchrasies you think are cute when you're in love, but make you want to cut yourself when the relationship goes south? Or will I, as she suggests, get tired of the grabbing? Do you ever reach the point where you think, meh, my girlfriend's boobs are ok, I guess...? Will I be seventy years old, puttering around the house waiting for her to bend over so I can pat her on the butt?

Well?

Dear Cute Girl At George Mason University Lecture Hall Circa 1996, I'm Sorry We Never Got To Do It

You know how sometimes you supress moments of humiliation or stupidity because they're just too much to deal with? Me too. So I'm just sitting here at work and the Braid song "Do You Like Coffee?" comes on my internet radio station. I don't even like the song. But the memory floodgates opened. I'm so J. Alfred Prufrock it's not even funny. Listen to this:

It's about 10 years ago, and I'm in college. I'm taking one of these lecture courses in a giant auditorium with like 300 people. I'm almost certainly very high every time I go to class. But I keep noticing this pretty girl who was just the type of girl I liked back then. Shy, pretty, disarming in that Charlie Brown's Little Red-Haired Girl kinda way.

But of course I never walk up and talk to her. I'm just too ineffectual. I sit and stare and then look away when she catches my eye. I don't even have the guts to smile when I look away when she catches me. No, I just give her the creepy, stalker vibe. Sexy.

So one day after class she walks up to me and starts to make small talk about the course. I'm ok once I actually start talking to a girl. Or so I always tell myself. But this girl finally says, "Do you wanna get a cup of coffee?" and gives me this smile that just melts me. Because I wrote the book on being suave, I smile and deliver a classic line. Are you ready? Wait for it...

Wait for it...

I says to her I says:

"I don't drink coffee."

Without a word she turns and practically runs away. And I never saw her again.

Can you see why I blocked this?

I IM'd Baby to tell her the story, and she reminds me that every girl that got away isn't worth the one I've managed to keep:

Me: "and i never saw her again"

(Baby is typing a message)

Baby: "Idiot"

(Baby is typing a message)

Baby: "How did you ever get me in the sack? If she offers you a steaming cup of poop you take it. Are you retarded?"

Me: "i know right? poor girl probably spent all that time building up her courage then went home and hung herself"

(Baby is typing a message)

Baby: "Please, you're not even that cute."

(Baby is typing a message)

Baby: "pwn3d"

Identity Crisis

I've been thinking a lot today about who I am. No really.

While I'd like to think of myself as an individual, I've always defined myself as a member of a group. Throughout my life I associated with particular kinds of people, and they were who I was. I've been, in rough order, a Skateboarder, a Basketball Player, a Slacker, and an Indie Rocker. When I'm in that phase of my life I tend to hang out with those kinds of people, act that kind of way, do those kinds of things. Yet there was always some overlap. When I get bored of my current group I could always go back to the old group. But not anymore.

As I've gotten older, I've grown out of these groups. I'm too old to really skateboard anymore, not without feeling foolish. My body won't cooperate enough to play basketball. I've accomplished too much to really be a decent slacker at this point. And I've lost my desire to seek out new bands. So I'm not connected with these groups anymore, and honestly right now I don't know who to connect with.

I'm resisting the temptation to just be the guy that becomes the male version of his girlfriend. Baby is fantastic, and her taste in music and fashion and life and everything else has really grown on me. But I don't want it to get to the point where people are laughing at me because I've changed into her. At least I don't want them to laugh any more than they already are.

I feel like I should be able to find some group to belong to. But I don't know where to look. I'm stuck in between being too old for stuff that teenagers do and too old for stuff that old people do. I don't have the health to handle becoming an Alcoholic, and I don't have the means to become a Golfer. I can't give in completely to my nerdy urges to become a full-time Gamer or Computer Dork, but I'm not cool enough to work the Aging Hipster angle.

So I'm just sorta lost right now. I'm rapidly losing touch with my friends from my previous groups, and I don't really have any plan in place to find new friends. I'm used to friends drifting in and out of my life- that's happened to me since I was a kid. But I was able to balance that with what was always an influx of new people. These days the number of people I keep in my cell phone seems to keep shrinking, and I seem to get more spam than real emails. I rarely see people I considered close friends just a year or two ago. And worse (although good for them), I see them adjusting to their changing groups and identities with greater ease than me.

I guess maybe this is part of growing up, but it's lousy. I have this fear I'm going to end up like my parents. Sitting at home in the evening and building my life around my TV shows. Maybe the group I'm joining is Old People. Bitter.

Baby, Why Are We Happy That Britney Is Crying?

My girlfriend is a smart, sophisticated, successful woman. She makes more money than me, has a better job than me, went to a better college than me. She reads the entire newspaper every day while I play videogames. She has traveled to places I could barely locate on a map (who takes a vacation to Croatia?). I ask for and follow her advice about any number of things, because she is as street smart as they come. Baby has her shit together on levels I can't even fathom.

But the celebrity schadenfreude thing makes no sense.

Baby has tried to explain it to me. She hates these women because they're stupid. She resents that they're rich and famous for having no discernible talent beyond perfect skin and a great rack. She cannot stand that the world worships these women as if they're perfection, when on closer inspection they're glorified tramps. So she revels in the stories of their imperfection. She wants to take the piss out of them, because she feels like they get too much attention. In her eyes it's a slap in the face to the hard working women of the real world who don't have the time/money/resources and most of all luck to be starlets. And that makes sense. I appreciate the solidarity angle. Men are pigs, and these women are tramps. I get it. Only here is the thing- you broads are the reason why these broads are famous.

Men don't care. Well, straight men don't. We see these women on TV or in the movies and we think, 'Wow, she is hot.' But really, that's the end of it. We don't care about her favorite food or where she shops or where she puts her baby when she drives. We might fantasize about them, but the fantasy is dirty and short lived and not fit for print. We don't care about the personal details of their lives- we don't want to know. Because that ruins it for us. We know they're fake. We know they're just the fantasy. We're fine with that. You start adding details and it becomes more like real life. Where is the fun in that? Here is proof. I've got no idea how many men are using the internet to look at porn, but I'm willing to venture it's a lot. Do you think we care what these women's names are? Of course not. Are these women household names? No. There is a reason the stories in Playboy aren't about the girls in Playboy. Nobody cares.

So that makes us assholes, because we're treating these women like objects. We've got no respect for their feelings. We're supporting an industry that takes advantage of them, that puts them in a poor light, that degrades women.

Ok ladies, now explain to me how that's different from what you're doing.

I Am Only Happy When I Have Something To Bitch About

This is a common misconception. I can't say I blame people for believing it, because I have this habit of bitching about everything that ever happens to me ever. Lately I've come to realize just how much I bitch, and I've taken to bitching about how much I bitch. Everyone is good at something, and I have mastered complaining.

Thing is, I'm honestly not an unhappy person. Really. In fact, I'm strangely happy almost all of the time. I actually don't mind getting up in the morning, don't mind getting ready for work, don't even mind taking the Metro.

Yet if you listen to me, it sounds like I've got the barrel in my mouth and my toe on the trigger.

The more I've thought about it, the more I've come to believe that the bitching is my avenue for letting everything out. I tend to have rotten luck about a lot of things, things that would probably get most people really down. So I complain about them. And after a while, they don't seem so bad. In fact, they usually end up being funny. I tell a story about a bird shitting on my head on the way to the grocery store that has no products on its shelves and I've got a hangover and my medicine isn't ready at the pharmacy and the woman in line in front of us is arguing with the checkout lady like the price of Twinkies is fucking negotiable (this really happened the other day), and I feel better. The person hearing the story laughs, I laugh, and everything is okay.

Or is it? Because sometimes I catch myself complaining and I realize, 'This person just asked you how you've been, and you've been bitching for five minutes and haven't let them get a word in edgewise.' I do this kinda thing all the goddamn time. I forget they don't really want to know how I've been, they're just making conversation trying to be polite. Or they want to hear that everything is good, and how have you been? But I jump all over that question. I honestly answer it. 'I've been sucky, because...and then...which made me...can you fucking believe that?'

So just bear with me. It's my catharsis. Baby noticed from the get-go that when I'm really angry I don't say anything at all. I just sit there and stew, waiting to explode. If I'm complaining, it means I'm just trying to make myself feel better. And it will work. It might make you miserable in the meantime, but then you can just go bitch to someone til you feel better. See? Everybody wins.

I'm In Love With A Man Named Albert Pujols

I'm an enormous baseball fan. I wrote this for another place, but I'm posting it here because I like it. A lot of the numbers will go over your head if you don't like baseball, but you might appreciate the part at the end. Then again you might not. Sorry, but nothing embarrassing has happened to me today. Then again, it's only 10:00Am.

One of the most amazing stats about Albert Pujols is his remarkable consistency. In his first five full (2001-2005) seasons he has the following total number of at bats: 590, 590, 591, 592, 591. Barring injury, I’d venture it’s safe to assume he will get 590 at bats this season.

If he continues at his current pace, Pujols will hit 82 home runs, score 169 runs and drive in 215 more (numbers rounded down). In addition to breaking the home run record of 73 set by Barry Bonds in 2001, he will also demolish the RBI record of 191 set by Hack Wilson in 1930. He will not eclipse the single season runs scored record, set by Billy Hamilton in 1894 with 192. Pujols would end up third on the all time runs list, scoring the most runs since Babe Ruth’s total of 177 in 1921.

At the risk of sounding too partial, I should also point out that Pujols’ batting average is down considerably this season. If he continues at his current pace he will only hit .315. His steals are down as well, as he is on pace for only 6 this season. He can perhaps be forgiven for that one, as there is no need to steal second base when you’re jogging past it on your way toward home.

I’m not naïve enough to suggest that Pujols will continue his torrid pace. But I do think he is a legitimate threat to the hallowed Hack Wilson RBI record and the steroid-inflated Bonds home run mark. The runs record may be out of reach, but Pujols is lined up to smash the record for the modern era.

Buster Olney’s column from the June 5th ESPN Magazine raises the suspicion that Pujols’ numbers are the product of steroids. It’s a reasonable assumption given the apparent widespread use of steroids in professional baseball. There are currently no tests for human growth hormone (HGH), and it’s certainly plausible (probable, in fact) that professional baseball players have merely switched to HGH and other steroids that are undetectable under MLB’s laughable drug testing program.

My question to Olney is: Who cares?

Which would you prefer, Sosa and McGwire dueling for the home run crown in 1998, or Mike Schmidt swatting a league-high 31 in 1981? Chicks aren’t the only ones that dig the long ball. If we’re going to assume a large number of baseball players are dirty (and honestly, isn’t it time we do?), then it’s safe to assume they’re not going to change. As Olney points out, we’re not beyond the age of steroids in baseball- we’ve only just begun. I, for one, am not disappointed. If steroids are helping Alfonso Soriano hit home runs in cavernous RFK Stadium, then more power to him. If Albert Pujols’ numbers came from a lab, how can you blame him? He’s no more tainted than anyone else, he’s just got the right combination of ability and chemical engineering. So keep swinging Albert, we will all keep watching. We’re all in this together and we’re all guilty. My advice to Olney and the other critics is to come down from their high horse, because this is pretty exciting.

I Hear The Secrets That You Keep...

So apparently I talk in my sleep.

I've had other girlfriends tell me that I mumble in my sleep, or occasionally even say a few words that don't seem to make sense. But now that Baby and I have been living together long enough to gather a reasonable sample size, there is simply no denying that I talk in my sleep. And knowing me, I'm bound to say something stupid and get into trouble.

The first episode happened right after we moved in together. In the middle of the night, for no apparent reason, I rolled over and punched Baby in the arm. I hit her so hard that I woke us both up. What's scary is that I wasn't the least bit groggy. I woke up on impact, and heard her say, "Ow!" Confused, I asked, "Did I just hit you?" And she says, "Yeah, what the fuck was that all about?" No telling. Thankfully she forgave me, and thankfully I haven't hit her since. Well, not in my sleep anyway. (These are jokes people! ...is this thing on?)

Baby goes running in the mornings before I get up. On days when she runs I don't set my alarm clock, and she comes in and wakes me up. She usually does this by kissing me, because she's just that awesome. So she comes home one morning last week and sits on the bed and kisses me on the lips. Still asleep, I clearly say the words, "Hi Mom." No, I'm not kidding. But again, I knew right away that something was amiss. I immediately say, "Did I just call you Mom?" "You sure did, Son." Yikes.

Then just this weekend we saw this crazy vampire band at the Cat. I don't mean to imply that they're really vampires, although they might well be. But they wear these campy vampire costumes, and they rock in a way that would be derivative if it weren't for the fact that they're dressed up like vampires. When Baby pitched the vampire band idea to me earlier in the day I had balked at it, because I'm a sissy and that kinda thing gives me nightmares. But we ended up having a good time and getting awfully drunk. So drunk, in fact, that Baby fell down a few blocks from home and in front of not a few cars at the traffic light. I laughed, because sadly I'm the guy that laughs at that kinda thing. I also didn't get laid. That's just one of the drawbacks of being that guy.

So anyway later that night I passed out drunk, flat on my back. I started snoring, and Baby told me to roll over. I don't remember this one, but according to Baby I shouted, "Shut up! I'm trying to communicate with the dead!" and just kept on snoring. Your guess is as good as mine on that one. I'm just glad I followed the 'shut up' part with the nonsense part, otherwise I probably would have spent the following night communicating with the dead from the couch.

Ducktails, Boo Hoo

My hair is growing out. I feel pretty good about this. I used to keep my hair short and kinda messy. It was my way of not conforming. Then short and messy became the look, and I started seeing guys in the boardroom wearing their hair that way. So I had to make a change. I'm vain like that. It also helped that my girlfriend really wanted me to grow it out. I'm a pussy like that.

My hair is painfully straight. Like, if it grew all the way out I'd look like the guys from Nelson. Not that that wouldn't rule, but I've kinda wished my hair would at least do something other than hang. But hang it does.

It's ok though, because at least I don't have to do much to tame it. I pretty much just dry it and put this crap in it that Baby buys for me that keeps it from getting frizzy. It takes thirty seconds. Time is money.

When I was a teenager my hair was really long. Like, middle of my back long. I really don't know why. I think it was one of those 'trying to be different' things. Of course, in trying to be different I looked like every other heavy metal (why don't more people call them grits, like we did?) kid in school. But dude! I was SO not into heavy metal. I was into Jane's Addiction, and they weren't metal! I was alternative. I looked the other way when the guitar players made out on stage. I tried to score with the goth chicks. I failed miserably.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah, so my hair is growing out again for the first time since I was a kid. Only I've got this goddamn problem that's making me rethink the whole thing.

When I leave the house in the morning I'm all shaggy and it looks the way I want it to. But by the time I get to work the back right side has completely curled, leaving me with a gravity-defying little ducktail that makes me look completely retarded. What the fuck is that all about? I gotta think it's because it hits the collar of my shirt and gets all banged up. But why only the right side? Do I have some bizarre cowlick down there that's fucking it up? Is the guy sitting on the metro behind me fucking with it while I'm sitting half asleep on the train? Is this the beginning of the rest of my hair curling? Should I curl the front left side to balance it? Or maybe braid that part and let it hang down? Rat tails are still cool, right? Maybe I should cut it off and grow a fauxhawk? Those aren't too trendy, are they?

Who Are These Fucking People?

Honestly, is there anyone in America that doesn't understand that everyone makes fun of people with mullets? Is there a barbershop you can go into somewhere and say, "Business in the front, party in the back" and not have the guy laugh at you?

There have been movies, websites, and entire stand-up comedy careers based on ridiculing the mullet as a hairstyle. When you see the look, you immediately think of the cliche. It's instinctual at this point. I mean, nobody wears the Hitler mustache anymore, right? There are some looks that we just know are not for us. And I can't, for the life of me, figure out why the mullet hasn't achieved this status.

I was at RFK this weekend for the Nats and Orioles series. RFK is in Washington, DC, the capital of the United States of America. You'd think that people living within driving distance of a major American city would at least be hip enough to understand the no-mullet rule. This isn't Alabama, this is the Mid-Atlantic.

But there they were, in all their glory. Mullet, jean shorts, high top sneakers, Marlboros and Miller Lites and fanny packs. I don't mean to suggest that everyone in attendance had a mullet. But they weren't exactly rare, either.

And the more I think about it, the more puzzling it gets. These weren't hipster kids with faux mullets trying to be ironic. These were manicured, styled mullets that take years to grow. The kind of thing you have to work on, the kind of thing that takes planning and thought. Growing a mullet is like planting a garden. You have a picture of the finished product in your mind, and you painstakingly work at it until it's ready.

This is the part that gets me. They've obviously been thinking about growing mullets. They're aspiring to do it. What the fuck? Where does that come from? Who are they looking at and saying, "I want to be like that guy!"? All the kids these days want to look like rappers, and that's understandable. Rappers are all over TV, and people emulate what they perceive to be cool. We all do it, in a way. We have a look we're going for. Who the hell is going for the mullet? Who is the role model? When is the last time you saw a mullet on somebody even remotely famous? Hockey players and professional wrestlers don't even have mullets anymore.

Who are these fucking people?

Pales In Comparison

Everyone judges people. We all do it. We're internally critical of people, noting flaws and differences and unfortunate aspects of others' appearances, personalities, lifestyles- you name it. But we've been taught (some better than others) that it's not a good idea to make those criticisms known. The idea of "If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything" is sound advice, even if we don't follow it as often as we should.

Yet there are certain things we feel we've got free reign to comment on, despite the fact that they're every bit as hurtful and judgmental as some of the things we're not allowed to say. And frankly, I'm starting to get a little pissed at your supposed right to tell me how I'm somehow inferior because I'm not just like you.

Until a few years ago I was embarrassingly skinny. Weak beyond words. I had a number of issues, chief among them that I just wasn't that into eating and I didn't eat particularly regularly or well. So I was always underweight. And if you've ever been in that boat, you know that being skinny in a society full of fat people is an uncomfortable place to be.

Heaven forbid I should ever discuss a fat person's weight or diet in public. So what on earth gives you the right to declare how I must never eat, how I'm so lucky to be so thin, and- my personal favorite- actually put your fucking hands on me to display how skinny I am? Let's turn this one around. Let's say your fat ass walks in the room and takes two servings of birthday cake. Am I allowed to tell everyone in earshot what a fucking fatty you are? Maybe comment on how lucky you are to just not give a fuck that you could fit three of me in those pants of yours? And while we're at it, the next time you put your chubby little thumb and finger around my wrist and hold it up for everyone to see, how about I take a deep breath and see if I can't wrap my arms around you? Maybe stand behind you and try to figure out how you take a leak when you can't find let alone see your peepee?

Do you think I liked being different? The butt of the joke? Would you? Do you even care about the reasons why I got this way? I'm supposed to be sensitive to your condition. I'm supposed to understand that you're unhappy, and it's having an adverse impact on your body. Hey Slim, when I graduated from high school I was six feet tall and one hundred and fifteen pounds. I know from eating issues. So how about we start talking about this goddamn double standard?

Lately I've put on weight and I'm much healthier. But I've got a new issue that's apparently everyone's business. One that makes even less sense, if that's possible.

I'm pale. I am, and I will be for the foreseeable future. I wasn't when I was younger, but things have changed. I'm anemic. And I'm anemic because I take medicine to treat my leukemia. Leukemia is cancer of your bone marrow. Let me tell you, it's a bag of dicks. Anemia makes you weak and tired and pale and generally all banged up. It's not fun, but it sure beats being dead, which is where I'd be without the medicine.

So I'm concerned that it's ok for you to tell me that I need some sun. I realize it gives you a tremendous sense of self-satisfaction to place your desirable, golden brown arm against my unattractive pale one and declare yourself the winner of the great suntan contest, but I think it's a little fucked up. I know white people are supposed to get suntans. It's what all the cool kids do. But I can't get one. I just burn. And it hurts and so I'm over it.

When I was younger I took all the skinny cheapshots without fighting back. Those days are over. I'm trumping your suntan attack with the cancer card, and I'm clearing out the goddamn room while I'm doing it.

"My God bryc3, do you ever go outside? You're white as a sheet!"

"Yeah I go outside sometimes, but I can't get a tan because I've got cancer and I'm dying. So tell me more about your vacation. Hey wait, where are you going?"

Chocolate City Laments

You know, it's not my fault that things are the way they are. I didn't cause this situation, and I'm not exacerbating it. I just live here, same as you. Sure, I'm new here. But nobody told me I wasn't welcome. And for the life of me, I can't figure out why you want me to leave.

I was born right across that river. I'm not from this hood but I know it. Thirty one years doesn't go back all the way but it goes back far enough. I know the history, I know who lived here when things were good and I know who lived here when things were bad. And honestly let's stop kidding ourselves, because we both know that there was a hell of a lot more bad, and the bad wasn't exactly a long time ago.

My family has been here even longer than me. Plenty of them, older ones mostly, can't even imagine why I would choose to live where I do. They remember the riots, the fires, the crack, the hookers and the murder rate. They remember the white flight, the black flight, and the vacuum that ensued. I explain that things are changing, that things are safer, that most of those problems (ok, maybe symptoms) are fading away. They seem to want to believe me, because that doesn't sound so bad.

So why does it sound so bad to you?

I don't own this apartment or this building. I'm not on any community board to clean up the neighborhood. I don't care if you sell single beers or single cigarettes at the corner store and I'm not lobbying you to replace all those forties with bottles of wine. I think the selection of cheese at the Giant on 8th is just fine, thanks, and frankly I couldn't care less about a lack of good coffee shops or restaurants.

Now that you know a little bit more about me, can we maybe take it easy on the dirty looks? I'm just walking home, not to the 'let's turn this place into Georgetown' rally.

I'm not trying to steal Shaw from you. I just live here.

I'll Give You Something Comcastic Alright

I moved into a new place, in the city, just about two months ago. Because I contribute so little to the relationship (hey, who are we kidding?), it's my job to handle the activation of the cable, the phone, and the internet. These are hassles under the best of circumstances, of course, but when I'm involved they tend to turn into fiascoes. And of course, we're neck fucking deep in fiasco right about now.

I <3 teh teevee. So does Baby. We've got three TV's in our two bedroom place. As such, we need some serious cable. When we were shown the place the landlord informed me the building was wired for DirecTV. I was happy, but I figured we'd be better off just getting cable for the internet and television. That was my first mistake, and it was a big one.

I set up appointment after appointment with Comcast. I had a week off during the move, so I had plenty of time to meet the guys that came to set it up. Or so you'd think. The first guy that came out informed me we hadn't been set up yet, so he couldn't do anything. The second guy never showed. At the end of my week off the third guy came out and finally got things up and running, but just barely. The picture on the cable was atrocious, because the signal was so weak. HDTV didn't work at all. And our internet access was incredibly unreliable. But hey, at least I could watch Mason play in the tournament.

I set up our fourth appointment to have the signal worked on. Another no show, and a missed afternoon of work. A week later the fifth guy showed up and explained to me the initial setup was wrong, and they'd have to re-wire from the street to the building to fix the signal. Thankfully that appointment was in the evening, so no missed work. I scheduled the next appointment for a week later (soonest I could get), this time having no choice but take another afternoon off. In the meantime another group was supposed to come out and fix something in the street, meaning I didn't need to be home. OK.

The following week, guy number six (although technically number seven) shows up four hours late. This is an extra bonus, as he got there at 6pm so I didn't need to take an afternoon off after all. He informs me that although our building was scheduled to be re-wired, and the technician filed a report that stated he had completed the work, nothing was actually done. I'd had enough. I thanked the guy and told him that would be all. I called the office and waited on hold for one hundred and three minutes (it's ok, I drank the time away) and canceled my service. No thank you, Mr. Comcast. This was March 21st.

I received a bill in the mail from Comcast yesterday. Apparently my account is past due. Imagine that- they fucked up the cancelation order and they're continuing to charge the account. The letter states, in no uncertain terms, that I will no longer be able to enjoy Comcast cable unless I pay my bill immediately. The total? Four hundred and thirty nine dollars.

I'm writing the check right now. Do you think they will notice that it's signed with the blood of their recently murdered children? I hope so.

I've Tried Nothing And I'm All Out Of Ideas

I envisioned this great comeback post. This heartwrenching, hilarious, comment-inspiring masterpiece that says, "See? This is what you've been waiting for!"
Yeah, not happening. I got nothing.

I miss writing here. I miss the catharsis. I also miss the sense of pride I used to get when I saw how many people were actually reading. I'm not ashamed of that. Should I be? No, definitely not. This isn't a diary. This is written mostly to make people, including myself (well, mostly just myself) laugh. I wasn't doing it for the kids, or the music. I was doing it for the hits. No point in being fucking coy about it.

But with that came the pressure to be funny, to be angry, to be thoughtful. I got to the point where I felt guilty for producing some crappy posts when I didn't have much to say. And then I was SO over it. Days turned to weeks and I had nothing good to say. Hence, silence.

I think I might try a different approach. This time I'm just going to suck and not feel bad about it. I'm going to choose frequency over quality. No more pressure to perform.

So welcome back to my blog, now shittier than ever!

Impending Doom

Get away from me, I'm warning you. Something terrible is about to happen.

You see, I'm cursed. Bad things just happen to me. Always have. I had an ex who used to say that lucky people seem to have rainbows following them around, and unlucky people have stormclouds. Only bryc3's stormcloud rains knives and broken glass. It's true. If you read this regularly you know that I must have done something to someone at some point that basically screwed me for life. My karma is pwn3d. There's no way around it.

You learn to live with it. When you're constantly prepared for the worst case scenario you develop an almost Zen-like calm when the shit hits the fan. "Oh, bad luck. I was wondering when you'd show up." Case in point: when my ex-fiance and I split up I barely batted an eye. Now granted, I was happy to be rid of the shrieking, hateful harpy. But on the other hand, catastrophe was inevitable. Instead of thinking "Woe is me, only six weeks to the wedding" I instead realized "Meh, at least I got that out of the way." It's as if acceptance of my own bad luck as destiny has led to a pessimism so extreme that I take comfort in it. So I just always make sure I'm wearing clean underwear, I avoid buying green bananas, and I carry around the names of next of kin in my wallet. I'm so sure the lightning bolt is aiming right at me that I don't even bother to look up when it rains. Death is coming sooner rather than later.

Except there is considerable recent evidence that suggests that my luck has changed.

Listen:

My girlfriend is the greatest person in the world. Like ever. Baby is simply the best thing that has ever happened to me. She's so great, in fact, that I have no idea what she's doing. She's way too good for me. But she hasn't caught on to this yet, and if you tell her I will fucking kill you.

When Baby and I decided to look for a new apartment recently we fell in love with and successfully rented the first place we saw.

I let my current landlord know that I would be moving out prior to the actual expiration of my lease, and that I was going to have to be on the hook for two places in the month of April. A week later she called to tell me she had rented my current place, saving me an entire month's rent.

On a lark I decided to apply for a job I saw listed in the paper. I didn't think I stood a chance, and I didn't think the interview went well. They told me they'd call me the following week and inform me of their decision. Imagine my surprise when they called two days later to offer me the job. Oh and by the way it pays 30% more than my current salary. And I will never need to drive my car again. And I have my own office. And on and on.

My current boss walks up to me today and says, "I know your last day is next Friday, but would you mind if we just made it next Wednesday? It will be easier for the people in HR. We will still pay you through Friday."

The George Mason Patriots are ranked 25 in this week's ESPN/Coaches poll.

And did I mention how great Baby is?

What the fuck is going on here? What on earth have I done to deserve this? And what unspeakable peril is about to befall me? This really doesn't look good. Baby swears my luck is changing. In her argument I hit the bottom and kept on going, and now I'm being rewarded. I'm way too jaded to buy into any of that crap (again, you tell Baby I said that and I'll kill you), but she may have a point. Time will tell I guess.

In the meantime, don't say I didn't warn you. And promise to say nice things about me at the funeral.