Horny, Lonely, Pathetic

Me: In Relationships

There is food in my bed a lot. People are all trying to take my money. Nobody wants relationships to last the way I want them to.

This is like that game two truths and a lie, except all of them are true. Instead it’s two bad things and a good thing. I like having food easily accessible.

I love being in a fully formed relationship that feels like you two can finish each other’s sandwiches (I should eat breakfast). I also hate when that lasts more than a day. It gets boring, routine, monotonous – much like a list of synonyms. The interesting part of relationships to me, and really anything to me, is that they are constantly transforming. They must constantly move forward otherwise they die. I can go through a relationship quickly. I need not three months to hit all the main points. I treat a relationship like a pithy writer treats an essay – make sure you get everything in, and put nothing else in.

My point is that I love relationships. I love all parts of relationships, and that’s why I don’t get into any of them. They’re all structured wrong. We should have fully formed marriages and divorces that last a week, or maybe a day. That’d be awesome.

Also a transgend’s girlfriend put a knife to my friend’s throat when we tried to stop her from beating the shit out of homelessman.

That’s another truth. Not sure if it’s a good or bad. They’ve obviously been in a relationship too long.

Attention Whoring, Lonely, Nostalgia

Me: In Writings About Textings

I found this in my notebook:

For the second day in a row I’ve seen someone cry on the subway. The first was a woman coming home from a shortened night of partying, probably because someone broke her heart and she was looking down so that she wouldn’t have to wipe her eyes and draw attention to her sadness. Below her face was a puddle that kept being added to by the salty rain that poured out of her face. Today there was a man wearing a black hat to cover a large gash in his head. The gash had healed, but no hair had grown back yet. He was texting someone on his Iphone. The text he was replying to said: “text me when you’re on the train so that I know your [misspellings left in] safe” He slowly and arduously punched in “I am on” and sent his response before our train went underground and he could not add endums [misuse of words purposeful] of anger or sadness. I know the contents of these texts because I was peering over his shoulder because I’m creepy and don’t respect privacy.

I also found this in my notebook:

I tutor via craigslist sometimes.

There are all kinds of horror stories of murderers on c-list luring in young nubile tutors for their silence of the lambs style fetishes. In case it happens, I practice sending text messages with my hands behind my back. They always are texts directing people to look at my computer where I leave a google map up of my location. So go to my computer if you get a text that says: “Hekd hostage address on xo.p”

I also found these three sentences written without any context:

I grew a beard because I wanted old men to stop trying to have sex with me.

I like following conventionally attractive girls because I like watching the guys who look at them.

I feel very comfortable around attractive lesbians.

Attention Whoring, Depressed, Gender, Horny, Lonely, My favorites, Nostalgia

Attract: A Post, A Female Post

Women, to me, are nostalgia bottled into breasts and butts.

I am still attracted to female anatomy, and maybe even more to the pain they feel from being subjugated to constantly being forced into playing the victim card in our patriarchal society – a pain I falsely understand as my own, but I don’t like women the way I did in the past. In the past, women represented an unattainable but very frequent goal. Something I knew I wanted, but didn’t understand how to get. Something that I gave too much power to, too much agency because society took so much of it away from them. When one combines a desire with an unwillingness to chase that desire, one gets nothing, and I got nothing. I wasn’t quite comfortable with that, but I understood it. I never felt anger because others (women) didn’t understand my how my sexual attraction was really just a selfless release of power – that I was constantly attempting to give the gift of agency to women I felt emotionally entangled with only to see my gift re-gifted to a man more willing to play with power. I understood their confusion because I was also confused as to what I was doing.

Whenever we grow, we also grow a comprehension of our past. We look at what we did and say “Why did we do that?” and then we answer that question because now we have to ability to look at the situation in a rational manner as opposed to being wrapped up in the emotional turmoil we’ve convinced ourselves is so important. I’m not saying that emotion isn’t important, but rather that it is fleeting. Emotion takes a lot of energy and to dwell on things that make you cry will make you tired. Constant tiredness is a symptom of depression.

I look back and understand a lot of my mistakes with women – but at least I had goals to fuck up. I haven’t truly desired a relationship in years. When I do find myself into a girl, it’s because I find my relationship to her similar to a relationship I used to have with someone else. Someone I had tricked myself into liking. Someone who I gave power and agency to only to get pats on the head and emotional diatribes back. Someone who makes me resent myself because they didn’t screw up, but I did. I was doing things wrong and I see women now as only an opportunity to make up for my mistakes. My mistakes were not that I didn’t bone them or make out with them or tell them how I felt. My mistakes were that I gave them agency and then forced them to use it. Agency is a lot of work and I wouldn’t let them be lazy. I love being lazy.

Laziness is not about not exerting energy, but also about being a selfless member of society. Laziness allows others to express their opinions. Laziness is listening. Laziness is helping others instead of helping yourself. This may not be the common definition laziness, but I am uncommon and therefore so are my definitions.

I was wrong in the past. I wasn’t maliciously so, but I didn’t allow people I was attracted to the same life that I had because I thought that no one else should have to deal with having my life. Now I do because I recognize the happiness I have, but I’m no longer attracted to anybody – truly.

Recently I hung out with two people that I spent far too much time obsessing over at different points in my life. My relationship to both is similar. They are similar. I miss them.

I miss them when they are right there because I will never be able to feel like I did. I really just miss myself. I don’t like that self that I miss, but he’s interesting. I wanna know what he thinks sometimes. I wanna know how he would feel right now. But I can’t because he doesn’t exist any more because he has been taken over by me. I killed him and I want him back. Not more than me, but with me.

A story I have been working on for a while starts off: “I need to explain to you all that while I hate myself, I hate all previous incarnations of myself even more.” I use the word hate and love interchangeably because as I’ve said before: “Hate is not the opposite of love, apathy is.”

I used to think of the graphical interpretation of my emotions as some sort of strangely oscillating sine wave where hate was below the x-axis and love was above it. Somewhere along my journey of life I added absolute value signs around the function of my life and love and hate became the same thing, but nearing zero became as depressed as I could be. I must be happier now. I at least enjoy everything more, but I want to hang out with all the previous incarnations of myself that weren’t this wise, that weren’t this understanding, that were attracted to these girls for all the wrong reasons.

I now find myself still attracted to them, but I fear it is just nostalgia. It is just me missing that scared little facial hairless boy who didn’t understand why giving didn’t result in receiving. Who didn’t understand that giving results in giving and receiving results in receiving and only once you do both are you truly adding absolute value signs to you emotions. Even I’m confused by what I just said, but I think I want to be. I want to be confused again and fall in love again and hate again and have it not mean the same thing over and over so I pretend. I pretend to myself that I want something that I wanted before hoping that I can get back any of those previous incarnations of myself and play with them. I really just want to play with myself.

I guess I succeed in doing that pretty often because I tend to masturbate to all these feelings of nostalgia, and also to breasts and butts.

Horny, Lazy, Lonely

Back to This Subject

It’s probably a cliche, but all of my friends in Minnesota are in relationships and none of my friends in New York are.

I made a joke to two of them that watching the tv show “Chuck” was like vaguely masturbating without any intention of cumming. He thought that sounded awful. I think it sounds reasonable. I think you need to be single to understand the joy in that.

Cumming is about pretending you are with someone and you get to put something inside of them and release a part of you into them. I can’t even imagine that. I just want the sensation that I have become used to. Masturbation is just comfortable.

What I am saying is that I am in a boring, committed, Minnesota relationship with my right hand.

Lonely, Pathetic

One in a Thousand

I am going to a wedding tonight. I forgot I was going to this wedding until yesterday, and I have a guest in town. I feel … bad? I feel fine. I feel as though if I hadn’t been going to visit people, having people visit and shit I would feel guilty, but I’ve done my good deed. Hanging out is a deed.

We went to a restaurant yesterday where a teenager had booked a spot to play his guitar and sing a couple octaves higher than he could and flatter than the chests of his not yet developed groupies. There was a large crowd there to watch him play. None of them were there to see him play. They were all there because this was an excuse to hang out. This was the excuse they could give their parents to be out of the house, to see other people their age. They couldn’t just go somewhere to chill. They couldn’t just get a call from their friend and be like: “My porch 10 minutes.” They had to go see their awful friend whine into a microphone.

I don’t miss being a teenager.

There was one kid there who accidentally got invited during science class. It’s a public area and it’s a kid’s “show” so nobody can kick him out. He doesn’t really have any friends so he doesn’t know that he could just leave and no one would care. He sits awkwardly at the bar waiting until this is done and he can go home and he can think he socialized so that he can pretend he’s not as pathetic as he knows he is.

I still find myself doing that sometimes. I still find myself sitting at a bar with people I don’t know and really don’t like – forcing myself to sit through the night hoping this is the night where something interesting happens. 99.9% of the time I’m wrong and I’ve made myself more lonely than I was before, but on that .1% of the time that I have a misadventure: I have a misadventure.

This is so terribly written so far. I haven’t edited a single sentence, but I also care so little about what I’m writing that I don’t want to read it again. I feel like this is so obvious – this is an obvious way to live life: To go against my desires to sit on my couch playing NBA2K10 while eating sandwiches and chips and instead hope for the 1 out of 1000 chance that my life provides me with interesting things.

Maybe this wedding will be interesting. I doubt it. I also have to wake up at 6:00am tomorrow for work. This wedding is gonna suck, but I really have to go and play the lonely-lottery.

Lonely, My favorites

Feel My Ass

Coming back to NYC after a week away really makes you realize how much it smells like pee, and how much the smell of urine has become a smell of home.

Some middle school friend of a friend found us at a bar and demanded/exclaimed “Beyond any sexual fantasy anyone might have, feel my ass.” I want that to symbolize the trip so here’s my attempt at forcing some shitdrivel.

I sit on the subway writing this as the R train screams slowly down the tracks. Two people have been forced to plug their ears out of pain. At home a British friend who is visiting has accidentally fallen asleep on my roommates bed making me feel guilty for forcing her into our home but also for how disgusting  my bed is – therefore not making it a viable option to rest one’s head in unless that head is filled with the self obsessed ramblings  of a lazy neurotic. New York smells like urine, remember.

Charlotte was full of friends, parents who tried to force kindess on me in a way that made me so comfortable I couldn’t feel uncomfortable (that sentence is profound not stupid – you’re stupid) and it was cheap and fun.

New York has always been and still is my fantasy. Partially this is because only here can I hone my comedic skills so often and for so many people, but partially because my fantasies include the romanticized idea of filth – of the struggling artists with morals but no means. When we fantasize, sexually, we fantasize about body parts all over but one of those is typically the ass. I love a good ass. The ass is also a thing that has been referred to by my dad as “the shit factory.” The ass  is gross, but that’s part of the fantasy. We may not want to believe tat poop factors into our masturbation habits, but we like to be so sexually and emotionally connected that we are willing to get down with the dirtiest part of the person. It is beyond our sexual fantasies – feel my ass.

Lonely, My favorites

How Sports Learned me Geography, and how they’re ruining names

I collected basketball cards as a kid. I also collected baseball cards as a kid. I also had no friends as a kid. These little glossy photos became my friend substitutes – my “I can’t believe they’re not friends!” When i hung out and played games it was with Tim Hardaway, Byron Russell, Fred McGriff, and Wade Boggs. One of the games I would often play involved splitting up players and battling their statistics against each other. I would create juvenile efficiency ratings and weight positions differently in my attempts to determine which of my made up teams would win in this fantasy battle of bball. One method I used often was to split up players based on the geographic area of their team. This way I could have a team of Jason Kidd (First Mavs run), Clyde Drexler (of Houston), Jamal Mashburn, David Robinson and Hakeem Olajowon battle it out against the Northeast powerhouse of Sam Cassell (Nets), Allan Houston, Jerry Stackhouse, Antoine Walker, and Patrick Ewing. I was soon organizing the players on the imaginary map that covered my floor.

In college a friend challenged me to draw a map of the US by memory on a whiteboard. To my surprise I did it well and it was thanks to basketball cards. I also knew the cities of these states and I knew what these cities meant – who lived in these places. I knew Atlanta was full of birds of prey (Falcons, Hawks), and that Baltimore was the pussy-ass version of that (Ravens, Orioles). The middle of Texas was still the old west (Cowboys, Mavericks, Spurs, and Stars) and Phoenix was in the middle of the desert (Diamondbacks, Suns, Coyotes). Houston was where space was born (Astros, Rockets), Detroit had cars (Pistons, Red Wings), and Boston had defunct sects of humans that were anachronistically placed in modern times (Bruins, Celtics, Patriots).

Teams keep being formed, but with the explosion of the internet comes the opportunity for poorly done democracy in the naming process. This form of naming (polling internetians) kills the team owners power in forming children’s opinions of cities. This can be good or bad. I assumed that the Bay Area was a magical world of warring ancient gangs (Raiders, Warriors, Kings, Giants, Athletics) which wasn’t so far off, and I thought Chicago was either overrun by large animals or where Wall St. existed (Bulls, Bears, Cubs) which was very far off. Now branding of our cities is left to the lonely teenagers who spend too much time on the internet, and I would not have been creative at that time.

I learned that DC had lots of murders because the Bullets claimed it as their home, but in 1998 they asked the city to come up with a less violent name and the fans chose “The Wizards.” There is nothing magical about that city except for how fantastically slow it takes to pass legislation (WHOA!!!! BAM!). This isn’t fair, kids shouldn’t grow up thinking that there are magicians in our capital, or that Oklahoma is a constant lightening storm, or that massive jungle cats roam the streets of Charlotte (Bobcats, Panthers), or that Tennesseans are a race of powerful gods (Titans), or that Minnesota is full of people who confuse adjectives and nouns (Wild). Or maybe they should. Maybe this is the fun of democracy is that we still must listen to our stupidest members.

One thing is for sure, we should demand that teams change names when they change cities. I was full of misconceptions growing up thinking LA was the land of a thousand lakes (Lakers) or that Utah had any black people (Jazz).

Change is good, I guess I like it, but we can’t be satisfied with the fact that we changed once. We started renaming teams, great, we used democracy (sort of), great, let’s get better names, let’s educate our lonely teenagers so they vote for cooler names and let’s name teams after very prevalent and possibly less interesting things in each city.

New Team Names:

The Boston Drunks, New York Snobs,  The Miami Skin Cancer, The New Orleans People Who Should Move, The Dallas Secessionists, The Phoenix Racists, The Los Angeles Fake Boobs, The Philadelphia Unnecessary Anger, The Seattle People Who Miss Nirvana Because it Made Their City Seem Relevant, and The Detroit (This Name for Sale).

Horny, Hungry, Lazy, Lonely

Saturday Night!!

You know you’ve hit a new low when making a peanut butter sandwich seems like too much work despite the fact that you forgot to eat dinner.

It was that crunchy organic shit though. The shit that doesn’t come premixed. The shit with the oil floating on top just forcing you to make churning one more task in your already arduous day. Plus it has that plastic sealing. That sealing that I’m gonna need a knife to open, though it is the same knife that I will use to do my churning.

I did it though. I broke seals, churned, spread peanut butter on a piece of bread, and put the other piece of bread back because I realized I could just fold the one I had already peanut-buttered and doing double the work seemed like, well, a lot of work. Then I had to wash the knife. Ugh. My life is getting too difficult.

It has been well documented about how much I love Beyonce and Lady Gaga and hate my penis. I’m too lazy to say something new about them, but felt a need to say something and figured I could go back to my old standbys in writing even if only through link/reference.

My pants are not as good of napkins as I wanted them to be and the oil that leaked out of my sandwich and onto my hand because I didn’t churn well enough is now creating stains that look like I’ve done something fun with my Saturday night. That’s right. I am now saying that I could improve my Saturday night by getting into a thumb plus-four-other-fingers war with my penis, but my roommate has some big law school paper due, so he’s still yelling at the furniture.

Depressed, Lonely


I love the internet because you get to keep a constant timeline of everything you do. Your browser is a robot that constantly memorizes all of your activity so that you feel as though everything you do is worth noting – everything you do is important.

I wanted to go check out the Huffington Post today. In order to do this I typically type h, u, f, and then click enter because my browser is so smart that it knows where I want to go. Because I wasn’t dilly dallying on my way there, I typed h, u, g and then hit enter. I have google chrome as my browser so by typing those three letters and hitting enter I had just googled the word “hug.” This is very embarrassing. What’s more embarrassing is that every time I attempt to revisit the liberal blog of news, I am reminded that I wanted to look for hugs online. I hope no one else wants to check out Arianna Huffington’s brain child and then assumes that I was so desperately lonely that I looked for the comfort of arms wrapped around my body through a computer.

Anyway, I spent a couple hours looking at google image results for hugs and they are depressing. God, what losers. So many people just posting pictures of hugging each other for the world to see, as if their love of each other is so great that others should look upon it and say “man, that’s what I want in my life.” I can’t believe those losers that would waste their time doing … My life is awful.

Lazy, Lonely, Pathetic


I never truly turn my computer off. I put it to sleep, but when it awakens everything is right where I left it. I like this, because I never have to put something away, which also means I never have to be done with it. Right now I have 8 tabs up on my google chrome window. The first is my gmail so that I can constantly pretend I’m connected to the world. The second is this tab for my blog so that I can pretend the world is connected to me. The third is the sketch show I just wrote so that I can memorize my lines. I read over it once yesterday then got distracted by the fact that my roommate has xbox 360 and NBA2K. The next is the instructions for how to apply to write for this blog I found and want to write for. It involves explaining what I want to write. I’ll do that when I have time. The next is instructions on how to apply to a sketch comedy festival I want to apply to. I’ll do that when I have time. The next is a job at College Humor that I want to apply to. That one involves a cover letter. I don’t have time to write something that matters. The next is the Moth website to remind myself to think of a spring themed story to tell on Monday. I don’t have a story yet because I don’t have time. The last tab is the one that will disappear first. Not because I like it least, quite the opposite. It is because that is the only tab who’s task will be completed by the end of the night. It is my hulu queue.

My bottom task bar is also full. Full with stories that I’m “working on,” scripts that I “need to edit,” and people’s phone numbers and important information that I received while sans paper and pencil but not sans the computer in my lap. I have 3 untitled Notepad documents open. My computer is my life, and my life seems pretty unfinished, but that’s the way I like it. I figure if it’s unfinished that means that I got shit to do in order to finish it. Sure. That seems like a very flawed but reasonable defense to make myself feel less guilty for spending the next two hours watching Fringe and Flash Forward.