Indignant, Lazy, Media

My Excuse

Again I am faced with the disgusting reality that when my eyes opened at 9am this morning I had to watch three hours of television. I had to check my twitter feed, which is like wasting time by wasting time. And then I saw this on facebook:

Obviously the movie is stupid. Obviously it is a bad thing for society. What caught my eye though was that this ad is stating that in order to answer the question “Can sex friends be best friends?” you have to see this movie. Movies don’t answer questions like that. They are providing a look into one person’s vision as to the answer. Good filmmakers just provide you with the tools to ask yourself questions. But it’s not fair to compare whoever started writing a project that was originally titled “Untitled Ashton Kutcher/Natalie Portman project” to good filmmakers. It is fair, however, to demand that just because you had one thought about one subject that it is not correct. That people should not listen to it and think wow, you’re right that is how I think about that now. Especially when it comes to love and shit. Love and shit is complicated. Love and shit is not answerable in a script.

Lots of people are stupid.

This is my ultimate point is that lots of people are stupid. Also lots of people talk. Therefore the overlap on the venn diagram is going to be significant. We shouldn’t be listening to people just because they are talking.

I watched a lot of CBS’s answer to The View: The Talk. It’s worse. Somehow they managed to get a larger group of more incoherent, more disagreeable people letting the loudest and dumbest voices speak loudly and then end with, “each of our opinions is valid.”


We don’t all have valid opinions. Some opinions are dumb. They need to be challenged and when a person refuses to challenge their own conceptions and instead look wackily at the camera as though they just made an obvious point and are simultaneously auditioning for The Office, then that person needs to be told to shut up. I’m not saying we can’t listen to people, but when people refuse to listen to other points of veiw, they lose their right to have their point of view listened to.

I think I’ve summed up enough hypocrisy to get to the point: I’m not wasting any more time because of hulufriday and twitter – they are just new excuses.

Lazy, Nostalgia

A New Way of Being Recycley Unproductive

To start off 2011 I will be scouring through my old notebooks to find writing so that I don’t have to create new things. Here’s something I wrote in a bar:

True Story



I was watching TV in a bar on mute and those are the words that were chosen to move slowly and horizontally across the screen in-between shots of Brendan Frasier and Harrison Ford arguing. Taylor Swift’s Romeo and Juliet played on the bar’s radio and I got so excited about the possible symbolism of the event that I demanded the check immediately and gave forth my credit card even though I had the cash to pay for my BLT so that they would have to give me a pen so that I could write this in my notebook.

I don’t think there is any symbolism.


Lazy, Selfish


Yesterday was the first day that that man could drive his Hummer in New York City with reason. I’m sure he was proud.

Like the rest of this post-apocalyptic world we are living in without completely realizing it, we are covered in snow. The night before had been a misadventure to see Tron – an hour and a half of The Dude being surprised by how cool computers are – through what seemed like Antarctic conditions, if Antarctica were full of stalling cars instead of penguins. Our 3D glasses providing wind protection, we trudged through feet of snow passed people choosing to spend the night in bodegas and toward the warmth of a friend’s couch.

There was a man walking by us with a crutch as we struggled with the lock of our entrance. Through three feet of snow, one man was hobbling and using a hunk of metal as his other leg to attempt to reach his destination.

Did we help him? Did we offer to put him up for the night? Did we stare awkwardly attempting to decide if either of these things were valid to do?


I still feel terrible.

I feel terrible because my thought process was: “I don’t need to help him because no one else will. He can’t be mad at me because I’m not treating him worse than other people are treating him. He’s not going to specifically point out me as an asshole – I’m just part of asshole culture.”

After our first apocalyptic adventure with a tornado everyone helped out everyone else, but now we film each other struggling with cars.

I don’t think it’s time that has jaded us, I think it’s cold that has made us less willing to help our fellow citizen. Fuck cold.

Also fuck myself.

Attention Whoring, Lazy

I’m Pajama Rich! A Story of Oscillation

My parents sent me pajamas.

I have to do my laundry and get toilet paper and garbage bags and sponges.

People in pajamas don’t do these things. People in pajamas lay down. I’ve essentially been wearing some element of my pajamas for the past 4 days, and it’s felt great. It feels like when you get up from your bed and there’s still an indentation where you had been, except somehow that indentation is still surrounding you – walking around with you – holding your shoulders and hips in its sweet embrace.

In other words, it feels terrible.

So often in my life the words terrible and great seem synonymous. I don’t know if I know what I want, but I do feel as though the knowledge would unhinge me. I’d rather oscillate like Sin(Tan(x)) at x=Pi/2 between love and disgust. I have no interest in x-axis emotions.

This is why I refuse to do my laundry because laundry is never as bad as I think it’s going to be. It’s always really easy, but it takes me 4 days to get up the energy to walk two doors down and empty one container into another container. It’s impossible. It’s impossible because it’s so boring. Nothing interesting happens in the two minutes that it takes for me to do my laundry, which is why I can’t get myself to do it. Boring is the x-axis emotion.

This is the second big reason that I like wearing pajamas constantly. If I wear them over my other clothes than they will not need to be washed. You only sweat into your first layer of clothing.

Last night I was at a party wearing my pajamas and everyone else was wearing clothes that had been organized and thought about. The hypocrisy of me criticizing someone for wearing clothes to present an image is not lost on me, but the difference in goals led to a difference in person. Was I wearing PJs mostly for attention? Absolutely. Other people were also wearing their clothes for attention, though the amount of attention that they wanted was a specific amount. Some perfect level of attention – some line that they could walk as thin as a tightrope where the right people would give them attention and the wrong people wouldn’t and all the attention would be the right kind of attention. BORING! If you’re going for things, go for them all out. Get all the attention you can get. PJs get a lot of good attention and bad attention, and I embrace it all – just as my PJs embrace me. The problem comes with that people are confused by a desire to achieve sadness, badness, and negative things. People are confused when I dive purposefully underneath the x-axis.

I can’t hang out too long on one line because even if that line is positive, that line becomes the default with which you measure all other emotions from. That line becomes the new x-axis. I want to keep my x-axis where it is and continue to oscillate around it.

So I left the party, jumped into bed and allowed my terrible greatness to surround my shoulders and hips.


Quarter Life Crisis

I bought a bottle of strawberry milk as a prop for my last sketch show. After the show, I put the prop in my fridge in case I wanted to drink some later. I didn’t.

But it’s milk.

I couldn’t let it go bad. I had to drink it. I brought it into my bedroom and took a sip. Strawberry milk is awful. It tastes like someone with a mucus problem spit in your pepto bismol. I only got through one sip, but then I left it on my windowsill. It’s very hard to throw away a mostly full bottle of strawberry milk – I always assume there will be a better use for it, but there is very little use for it.

Most of my writing is done wrapped in my 9 foot body pillow sitting against the wall while shaking off crumbs that get stuck in crevices of my body. Now I also have to stare at this menacing bottle of pink that illustrates all of my incapabilities.

How does a barely touched bottle of strawberry milk illustrate all of my incapabilities? Thanks for asking Nisse, I’ll explain.

1. I bought something I don’t like for the express purpose of using it once – I waste a lot because I think of an idea and then I refuse to follow through with it completely.

2. I now refuse to waste it by wasting it – My hypocritical stance on waste is embodied in this saliva filled stomach suppressor.

3. I’m too lazy to figure out a solution – Until this problem creates the inevitable stench of rotting dairy, I probably won’t do anything about this.

The above passage is what I pass for art in my life.

This girl is younger than me:

Her art is better than my art because she’s creative enough to burn dolls, hire child actors, and dance in an emotionally vulnerable way.


Survival of the Laziest

Yesterday I told our head chef that he should work less, he responded “But do you want to make singles or thousands?” to which I replied “Singles! Singles for a single guy!”

I said it mostly because of the very hilarious word play, but it’s also true. I like being poor and lonely, and it isn’t because of my desire for something to complain about (it doesn’t hurt), but rather because I hate responsibility. If I had money, I’d have to think of what I should do with it besides pay rent, and if I had companionship, I’d have to care about someone besides myself.

I only have the energy to survive – everything else seems like a lot of work.

Hungry, Lazy


I think I forgot to eat the right amount today.

This is my eating disorder: forgetfulness mixed with laziness. Sometimes I forget to eat. Sometimes I forget to stop eating. I did both today.

Leaving the apartment, I went armed with a bag of mixed pirate’s booty, which are packing peanuts disguised as snacks by old Dorito powder. I planned on eating some of the bag on the subway to go with my slice of pizza. Since I forgot a pen though, writing wasn’t an option and eating became the only way to occupy myself.

Full on styrofoam and sour cream and onion dust, I contended myself through two therapy sessions for teens masquerading as tutoring appointments. I was hungry when I got home but I needed to work on my upcoming show, so I opted for a beer and my roommate’s saltines to hold me over until I could make dinner.

Dinner got distracted by cool dance moves with too much plot and too little acting abilities and I just ate some day old hazelnut chocolate mousse.

I think that’s all I did today… I mean, ate today.

Lazy, Pathetic


I left my window open because it was hot. And humid. And I haven’t taken out my laundry in a while.

At 3:44 am I woke up even hotter. I was burning. I was itching and burning because I had just had a mass of mosquitoes attack the entirety of my skin. As I slapped my ears and face in attempts to slap the miniature fans that were buzzing in my eardrums, I realized I wasn’t getting back to sleep.

Above my head was the last couple spoonfuls of chocolate jalepeno ice cream melting in it’s pint container and a drink I had tried to cool down with a popsicle. I didn’t have any ice cubes, nor any refrigerated drinks so after making my Emergen-C with luke-cold water, I threw an open popsicle in it. It was gross and I didn’t finish drinking it. Now I had two gross decisions reminding me of my failure at life resting above my head.

I switched sides of the bed.

That didn’t help with the itching and the scratching.

I needed to get cooler.

I stumbled out of my room toward the bathroom and turned on the bathtub faucet. On cold. It was very loud. I use the word “very” despite its lack of detail because it wasn’t anything besides loud, it was just a lot of it. I couldn’t hear anything else, but that was nice because all I could hear before was the sound of insects looking for my blood.

I slowly let myself down into the ice water bath that was draining out because our bathtub drain doesn’t work that well. It was very cold. I shivered. I let my sack shrivel up into my body. I let my dick scream out that I was torturing it. I let my knees shiver together. I let my back and neck be released from the torture that was the heated bumps of itchiness that had become my life for the past 13 minutes.

I had substituted heat pain for cold pain, and I was very happy and I fell asleep.

Why isn’t it winter yet?

Attention Whoring, Lazy, Lonely, My favorites, Nostalgia

I Like My Women

One of my favorite games to play is “I Like My Women Like I Like My Nouns.” It’s a game I came up with in high school wherein the participant starts off by saying “I like my women like I like my (fill in the blank with a noun)” and then continues to explain by offering one to three adjectives that are funny. If it makes too much sense with both women and the noun then your joke is obvious and boring, and probably a little sexist. If it makes too little sense, you are an attention whore. It’s a beautiful game of understanding expectations and their relation to comedy.

Summer after graduating high school I was hanging out with some of the other teachers at the arts camp I taught at. We were at one of the richer kid’s summer house on the water. I felt uncomfortable because while I was “friends” with all these people, everybody else was closer friends than I was with anybody. Except Jon. Jon and I were friends. We both felt uncomfortable because we assumed no one wanted us there. My problem (as if there is only one) is that I get indignant when I wrongfully assume I am unwanted. I decide if I’m not wanted for no reason, I’ll make sure there is a reason. I started playing “I Like My Women Like I Like My Noun” by announcing that “I like my women like I like my sailboats.” I chose sailboats because the bathroom that we had all gathered in as Alex showed us her house as though we were real adults who needed real house tours, because the bathroom had a wallpaper full of sailboats. I hadn’t been listening to whatever story was being told by the New York transplant leading our tour under the assumption that it wasn’t interesting, but now I wanted my voice to be heard and I had no transition into focusing attention on me. I then needed to finish my game.

“I like my women like I like my sailboats. … With low self-esteem.”

At the time this was vaguely true. Not that sailboats could have esteem, but rather that I was interested in women as depressed with how their lives turned out as me. I just thought it seemed relatable. It was very funny. Jon laughed. I think I won the game.

Yesterday I played again for the first time in a long time. “I like my women like I like my rice pudding. … Chunky, wet, and full of grains.” This is a different approach to the game, but I think still very funny. Mostly because I like to imagine a woman pooping barley out of sheer pressure on her internal organs. This is why this joke is funny. It allows you the opportunity to believe that there may be a connection between my desires when it comes to women and snack-desserts, then it fucks with those expectations, then you have to go back and realize what if there had been a connection – do I really like my women chunky and wet? Probably. But that’s still weird.

There is still another way to play this game. Earnestly. “I like my women like I like my shoes. … Nostalgically.” I recently switched back to a pair of shoes I hadn’t worn in a while because they don’t breath very well, and I hate sweaty feet. Before that I had been running through a string of barely formed sandals and sneakers whose heels I could typically see through and whose souls were in multiple pieces. I liked those shoes though, because they fit. I saw it was wrong, but I was lazy. I didn’t want to have to find a new shoe. I didn’t want to have to spend another $10 on footwear, so I dealt with it. I pretended that I really liked when my toe touched the sidewalk even though I was supposedly wearing protective gear on my feet. I called them “worn in” when a rock would come in through the hole in the back heel. Now I have on new shoes. They aren’t new shoes, but they are new in that I haven’t worn them in over a year and a half. They are new in that the heel is fully intact.

They are also a little annoying. I have to tie them and untie them to get them on and off because I haven’t worn them enough to be able to make them into makeshift slippers. They slide around, which is fun, but because they are vaguely platform shoes, I sometimes trip – assuming my heel is further away from the ground then it is. But I like ’em. I’ve been enjoying my new height, ability to make loud clomping noises as I walk, and the way my feet look like a a clown’s feet fucked a gogo dancer’s feet. I have had this pair of shoes, or the exact same pair but older since I was a Junior in High School. They remind me of times when I was a cheaper attention whore. When I didn’t quite analyze each of my comedic instincts and rather just wore a funny hat or jacket, knowing it would get me a laugh. They remind me of high school dances, where Jon and I were the only ones dancing because we thought funk music could save the world if everybody just truly felt the groove. They remind me of icy winters in Minnesota when I would pretend I was on cross country skis, gliding to class on my tractionless boot-shoes. They remind me of all of the wonderful free suits I’ve worn with these shoes.


I like my women like I like my shoes. Sometimes I get stuck pretending I enjoy them when their “comfort” is really just my laziness and inability to see what would truly be best for me, and sometimes I jump into something new and exciting and it feels like it’s taking a while to really get, but even that’s exciting, but if I really analyze it – they are just the same as something I had before. I like my women like I like my shoes. Nostalgically.

I think I need new shoes.


That Old Saying

Someone in the apartment building next door is listening to that song from the opening of Dawson’s Creek.

I too do not want to wait for my life to be over and will instead present you with a list of goals.

See, my dad sent me an email the other day explaining how when he and my mom first moved to rural asshole town full of nothing they set goals for themselves. First, goals that were attainable within the next five years. Second, goals that seemed a little more implausible.

I too have goals.

Attainable Goals for within the next five years:

1. Have had sex with a double digit number of people.

2. Work a single digit number of hours per week besides writing and performing.

3. Have laundry in my building so that I don’t have to trek to the laundromat.

4. Finish my book of short stories.

5. Play settlers of catan at least daily.

Fantasies that are unattainable for the next 5 years:

1. Have had sex with more than 12 people.

2. Not work.

3. Laundry on my floor, so I don’t have to put on pants to do laundry.

4. Finish my novel.

5. Make a board game.

I may not strive hard, but I strive in one direction. I strive towards less. Less to do more to play. You know what they say: “All play and no work sounds awesome, why are we not doing that right now? Can we play right now? Is this playing?”