Warning!: This is the most pathetic blog I've ever written, and probably the most pathetic blog anybody has ever written, possibly even more than a fat gay man living with 8 cats blogging about how he's craving cheesecake, but is too lazy to get out of his chair. Get ready to laugh your ass off at me.

Another Warning!: This blog might also contain some StarCraft lingo, so if I accidentally threw something confusing in here, just leave a comment that says "What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck?"

Moar Warnings!?: If you make fun of gay cat-guy, expect him to write something nasty about you on his blog, like "You're a cunt. Fuck you. Go jump off a building." as if I'd seriously consider jumping off a building. First of all, that could really hurt me, being hurt is painful. Sooooo, yeah. That's not going to happen. Second, if you get mad and are all "Go jump off a building!" then the person you are addressing will most likely not comply.

Oh shit!: Gay cat-man just jumped off a building. I feel really bad now... he had so little to live for, besides his cats and to eat more food than what is even humanly possible, and I mad fun of him. I would give my condolences to the family, but I don't know what the fuck condolences are, and I'm too lazy to get out of my chair and look it up. Oh, the irony.


Remember the Angry German Kid? Remember how I told people that he wasn't funny and to stop sending me links to videos of the Angry German Kid? Of course you don't, but I sure as hell did. I remember all my reoccuring themes that I pepper across my blog just to see if anyone notices. Well, if you have no idea who the Angry German Kid is, let me explain. First, go to Youtube.com. Then type in "Angry German Kid". Enjoy.

Did you watch it yet? Did you see him freak out and destroy his keyboard? Yup. I always thought that was stupid and completely unfunny, and it was compounded with people sending me the video, as if! AS IF!

Well, I've always been somewhat competitive, so when I started playing StarCraft competitively, I thought "Oh, I'll just practice a bunch, then get really good then beat everyone." Then what happened instead was I practiced a bunch, didn't get very good at all. So here's what happened: I rawred, much like a leopard or something. I threw my shoe across the room in disgust, I screamed "What the fuck!?".

Recently, I was sitting in my chair, and I kicked the wall, and it caused my chair to fall over and the chair broke. Oh yes, I broke a chair. I hadn't broken any chairs in years. I'm almost 140 lbs now, so the chair pretty much got annihilated. I also broke a tiny Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. I really felt bad about that, and I picked up the pieces of the snapped weiner, and managed to figure out how to put it back together. I'm not sure why there is a tiny Oscar Meyer Weinermobile on my desk, but there's a lot of stuff here that I don't fully understand, like this empty lip balm stick. I feel like I should throw it away, even though it faithfully moisturized my lips when they where chapped through all these hard months.

While losing badly, I've come up with some fairly creative swears, including: "What the fucking fuck?", "What the shit!?", "God-fucking-damnit!", "Eat a fuck!", "Die, you piece of fuck.", "Shitfucker!", "Fuck my butt!", "Eat a fucking piece of shit, you piece of shit!" (Which would be cannibalism), and of course, "You shitfucking fuckhole!" Of course, I'm mostly mad at myself for doing stupid things, and of course, doing stupid things repeatedly, but moreover, just playing a 10-year-old game that nobody cares about with so much uh... passion?

Of course, I can only laugh at my silliness later, because sometimes I take things way too seriously when I definitely shouldn't (Keywords being "too seriously") and think of it as a reflection of my life. Like when I was learning to drive, I was terrible for some reason. I thought I'd never learn to drive, and figured "I guess I'm not good at anything in life. This is how everything goes." but eventually, I did learn to drive, and quite well, I should add. Now the orange cones have nothing to fear.

StarCraft is just a game that I love playing, and I'll probably keep playing it (if I don't jump off a building first) for a long time. Now for the lesson of the day, children. Don't forget why you started doing something in the first place. If you start playing a game for fun, then keep playing it and having fun. If you get married to someone because they have a lot of money, then... make sure they stay rich? I don't know. I'm pretty bad at coming up with moral-of-the-story endings to stuff. Remember to always brush your teeth, or your spit will turn pink, which is gross as fuck.

=)

 Over the course of the last couple of seasons, I haven't posted very much. I haven't been engaged much in blogging since last December, but I pop back in occasionally, kind of like driving through your childhood hometown to see how it is, and you see some of the same people, some of have moved away. The sidewalks are cracked, the houses need paint, there's garbage on the broken avenues, and that little shop that used to sell those gigantic lollipops has closed down.

As I stroll down those tattered walkways, people wave to me and say they miss me. I missed them too. They smile at me, and I smile back. They ask me where I've been, and I say...


An ominous charcoal-black windowless full-size van came screeching from beyond yonder spontaneously as I stood posed in serene equanimity. Suddenly, I was punched with the compunction to be terrified; my legs turned to liquid, the cartilage transmogrified into tapioca pudding. If I was canine, the hackles would factually stand on my back, however, my limbs would render themselves immobile as if latched in cast-iron shackles. Lurid silhouettes orbited by malign ambiance awarded no contradiction to my steadfast optimism, as they darted about ubiquitously. I became infinitesimally miniscule, but remained fastidiously captivated by the capricious cavalcade of camaraderie surreptitiously circling in the shadows. No doubt they were rendered flabbergasted by my profluence of equanimity, and had I been able to navigate through a labyrinth of lenient masked harbingers, I certainly would've evaded seizure, however, they were relentless. Prior to being tossed like Caesar Salad into their van, I opened my thesaurus and said "Well, this is quite...", turning a page to find the word I said, "...vexing." They did not engage a tête-à-tête.

Anyhoo, I was kidnapped by a quinessential polygamist cult with it's citadel situated in the heart of Wyoming (Where else would it be? Nebraska?). You know, an insidious anti-hedonistic threshold of hypnotized lemmings serenading a singular totalitarian esoteric ostentatious modern-era messiah with a litany of hallelujahs, or verily be ostracized by the cattle-like stoic congregation, envisaged as a prefidious Benedict Arnold to the Sovereign Savior, who merely confabulates fabrications fabulously and causes the fabric of reality to stand flabbergasted as his mere whim constitutes ultimate unequivocal actuality! Upon arrival, he brusquely began courting me for coitus, as his role as fucking Jesus revolved about a routine of copulating preadolescents of the xx-deoxyribonucleic acid persuasion, but also an occasional fully-developed female mammal.

So naturally, I escaped with a nail file.

Fucking weirdos. So, after I made haste from the cult (I was saved, in part, by a time-traveling, crime-fighting monkey named Nomac, who slashed peoples' Achilles Tendons as his main attack.) I got on a bus that took me to Kalamazoo, where I took a plane to Albuquerque, and then I took a helicopter to Ouagadougou, and then I took two aspirin, some painkillers, a Jack, and a coke, and woke up in a crate that sent me back home, where I finally sat down to blog, but I had such a headache that I was able to write was "CRIPES!" before passing out.

I actually wrote a lot of posts, but I never made any of them public, because they didn't "feel right". Maybe you know about those posts that you write, but keep going back and deleting whole paragraphs that just came out wrong, then, after finishing it, it still wasn't right. You looked at it, and concluded to yourself "I guess some things are just better off left unsaid."

Remember when Obama said that police officer acted stupidly? Sure, it's stupid for arresting someone for trying to get into their own house when they clearly identify themself as the legal resident, but apparently, the President wasn't allowed to have an opinion, because it "undermines the police's decisions". Really, that makes sense, because there are times when a minority person pulls out a wallet that looks like a weapon, and he has to be shot 127 times. Anyhow, the point is, I had things to say, but I didn't post them for ze world to see for a change, thus disengaging me from the Xanga Scene for awhile. I still feel disengaged, disgruntled and disconnected from the Xanga world in general. I stilll feel guilty about some of the things that I did on xanga before, and I have cloud over me telling me that I'll never be as "big" as I was before.

It's both freeing and disappointing to not be writing for an audience of thousands anymore, because in general, mass audiences don't catch subtlety very well, but laugh at pictures of sandwiches and pop-culture jokes. On the other hand, if you think it's fun having a handful of people care about what you write, imagine having a fuckton more people caring. That kind of grew on me for awhile, and I had a hard time letting it go. Most of my life, nobody has cared about what I thought, and I mean literally nobody. I'm not trying to get pity points by saying that, I'm just saying that when you crave validity, and then it comes in truckloads, it's very overwhelming but incredible.

If you're worried about me, never fear... I've grown up somewhat since I started this blog, and I feel like I have more confidence now, and I think the people in my life notice it too. To be honest, Xanga may have something to do with that, so thank you.

Peace!

I love when people ask me this question, I simply love it. As those syllables spill from their mouths, shivers of euphoria pour down my spine like cascades of warm water during a shower after having shoveled snow for, like, two hours and having cold nipples. Now, you're probably wondering why I love this question so much. First of all, it treats me good, with respect, like no other question ever has. It whispers "I love you" into my ear and kisses me softly, and holds me tight when I'm feeling blue, and when I feel like the sky is always grey, it shines beautiful rays of sunshine down onto my face. It tells me I'm beautiful when I feel disgusting. It opens doors for me and when motorcycle-riding ninjas attack, it doesn't scream like a pussy and leave me in a dark alley to be raped. Our sex is amazing.

Oh dear... I think I may have said too much. Crud.

But I love this question, because when someone is trying to make small-talk with me when I'm stocking shelves with boxes of kleenexes, I turn to them and say "Excuse me, I'm trying to do my thankless job here." and then they look at me like I just hawked a loogie in their face and ask "What is your problem!?", as if. You know, as if. AS IF. First of all, they're assuming I have just one problem. I have many problems. Second, do they seriously want to know? Imagine if I turned to them and said "Well, I recently ran out of Vagisil and my itchy crotch is irritating me, and on top of that, my cat has a bladder infection and the vet bill for shots is 500,000 dollars." then, being the thoughtful little people they are, would come up with some clever one-step solutions to every problem, like "Just use some duct tape." or simply go "I'm sorry to hear that, but you don't need to be so rude." but listen; I do in fact, need to be rude.

So, I was sitting at a very sophisticated coffee shop with World Wide Web wireless magic witchcraft shit, right? And it wasn't Starbucks. Definitely not. But I was there, brutally pounding away on the keyboard of my laptop that I borrowed, but planned to break from my intense typing, and all of a sudden, this guy says "Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice that you were typing very loudly, and if you could type quieter, I would appreciate it." I sat silently, because there were no words. In the entirety of human communication, there aren't words that can possibly come close to properly expressing the level of stupidity in his request. "Are you kidding me?" I said, and he cleverly retorted with "Yeah."

I laughed, then whipped off my glasses dramatically, or attempted to, but they clung to one of my ears, so they came off very awkwardly, but he got the point.

"Do you even realize that I am Celebrity on Xanga?" I scoffed, adding "You're an insect to me, and I am a shoe, and I step on you."

"What is your problem?" he asked.

I reached into my bag, and pulled out a sai. As soon as he saw it, his eyes widened, and he shuffled away nervously, realizing that his life could've ended right there. I was then asked to leave by the management.

I changed a few tiny minor details in this story, like the name of the guy, who was named Peter or something, but I changed his name to "The guy" to protect his identity. Also, by the way, whenever you say "identity", you also are saying "titty", you perv!

So I ask you,

What is your problem?