foulmouthedbastard:

I hate it when people try to tell me what I can and can’t joke about. Dont tell me what topics are off limits or too offensive. Its human nature to cope with the darkside of human nature by making light of it, and I’m exceptionally good at it.

Tasteless jokes aren’t…

That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

I hate it when people try to tell me what I can and can’t joke about. Dont tell me what topics are off limits or too offensive. Its human nature to cope with the darkside of human nature by making light of it, and I’m exceptionally good at it.

Tasteless jokes aren’t funny, whether they’re about chickens crossing roads or butt rape, but good jokes can and always will remind us that we are strong enough to overcome even the most depraved of human tendencies.

So how about this, I say whatever the fuck I want, and laugh at whatever disgusting, repulsive thing I want, and you go find a comfy place in the sand to bury your head so your stupid ass wont ever have to hear anything that might hurt your feelings.

She hates the way I chew my fingers and scrape the burnt layer from her toast instead of making a new one. She hates my laugh, and my hopeless AA friends. She’s unconfortably honest with people that don’t deserve it, and hopelessly attached to the idea that I will always leave my keys and wallet in the same place.

I conjure instant passion by leaving the TV on really loud and keeping my socks on while we make love, and I can only gather that she sort of hates that too.

I’ve got this carefully scripted approach to authoritative seduction that made her cry while watching Robocop for the hundreth time, and I’ll be damned if it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

Every chance at escape was a springloaded excuse to spend too much money on useless shit from Amazon, and soon we were drowning in convenience.

I write strictly on suggestion, yet I only pause to remorse during commercials.

What a gas.

That night I sneak into bed with her, wearing the same clothes I was wearing when I burnt down her favorite Starbucks. I relish in my defiance, and tomorrow during her neice’s school play I will stroke her surgery scars with one hand and tag pornography on my stolen iPhone with the other; all the while daydreaming about a place in middle America where I can finally be alone.

Poetic justice is that phrase people use when they can’t think of a better reason why things went all to shit. I’ve been smoking as long as I can remember, and sometimes when I take a drag I like to estimate the seconds in my head that I’ve probably cut from my life. What if I got hit by a car tomorrow, wouldn’t that be ironic?

I’m sorry, I mean poetic justice.

A long time ago I aspired to be a police officer. Yeah, I’d seen cops, I’d realized how fucked up the justice system was. I felt a little guilty for wanting to be another cog in a broken system, but can you blame me? Ruling in hell, serving in heaven; its all the same really. You miss birthdays and parties, and pass up on trips and connections and say “I miss you” when you don’t really mean it and stay in one place because minefields are for faggots, and what does it all mean?

To my friends, I’d like to remind you that our time together is a symptom of a greater disease that has nothing to do with me, or the reason we’re together. To my lovers, I can only apologize, and promise to one day try to gather my mistakes and somehow use them to make myself a better person; whatever the fuck that means. To everyone in my life who has played even the slightest role in the cause for the way I am, I want you to know that I see you all in my sleep; you gather together around my head and prop me up, and keep me from falling into the abyss that we’re all so terrified of.

Tonight, I celebrate. An anonymous benefactor of my wonderful blog begged me not to mention myself, alcohol, or strange women in my blog, but after I read his/her critque I came to the stark realization that at this point in my life, It’s all I’ve got. I am my own disease. I am the spark that lights the fuse on my death clock. I am the reason that the sun refuses to rise when I demand it to, and why I wake up with less money then I started the night before yet I still manage to drag myself out of bed and be the best asshole I can be.

To the few souls in this world that I call friend, I adore you, much more than myself, and for this I can only give thanks and mutual comfort as we spiral together into the nothing that awaits us.

That’s the best review I’ve gotten in awhile. One of my anonymous followers called my writing “horribly stagnant”. The imagery was nice.

Anyway, as soon as my life revolves around something other than myself, alcohol, or mysterious women, you’ll be the first to know.

Although I am curious, if I should stop writing about myself… then who should I write about?
I’m being earnest. I’m very open to suggestions.

I trip over a misplaced amp and stub my toe on the lip of the stage.

“FUCK.” Inward breath. Flash of pain. Warm gatorade dribbling down my leg.

I curse loudly, but given the current company, nobody notices much. I rush through soundcheck, tightening grips and rearranging wires until I’m sure I’ll be able to navigate the stage without further compromising my already remedial balance.

Zack is already drunk, and he slumps over the curve of his guitar, picking idley at his strings in a mid-tour stupor that weighs on his shoulders and eyelids. Ben is talking to a pale girl in the corner with neon pink hair and a pound of make up on; Scott naps on his drum mat. The sound guy reads the latest episode of Hustler in his booth, worn converses and three day old dirt mustache bathed in the bright orange stage lights.

I feel as though I’ve been here before, but I haven’t of course. My current leg of existence is fueled by a tentative mix of oral sex, sour patch kids, and the stinging prospect at the back of my mind of sleeping on a bed made of something other than sheet metal or thirty year old couch foam.

You know, when you love something, you also have to be open to the prospect of hating it too. Its the same reason movie stars and millionaires kill themselves. Nothing has the same “new life” smell it does when you first jump into it. As kids, we always sensationalize this idea of doing something that you love with your life, completely unaware of the fact that functional life within the human condition cannot afford joy and compatability in the same physical form. Sure, you can rub one out between flights or buy new patio furniture, but its never exactly what childlike-you pictured as the pinnacle of your hard work.

I got angry young and tattooed my neck and knuckles, hoping that with enough blind, stubborn will I’d hack my way into some secret niche of money and success where you don’t need any particular skill, just youthful determination and the figure to look sexy in pair of tight black jeans.

I think we’re in Utah, but there’s no way to find out without sounding like a dick.

“Set… list?” Zack throws up in his mouth a little. He smells like gas station jerky and old underwear. If there was a definite line that we had passed that crossed into the realm of rockstar, I hadn’t noticed.

“I dunno man, lets just wing it.” I just want to escape his stench, but the fact that its so familiar makes me sicker than just smelling it does.

Over the months, our album seemed less like our musical mark on the world and more like a menu we keep reciting over and over again to clueless patrons who stand in their weird clothes with their weird faces staring at us like we weren’t invited. I guess I stopped doing it for them awhile ago, but much like a lot of the events over the past year, it was probably best that I didn’t recall them as vividly as I often wish I did.

People start leaking in to the cramped venue, and I grab a few bottles of free water from the bar and set them next to my stand. I run over the lyrics in my head, even though nobody knows our songs well enough to care what they are.

The lights shut off and we get behind our instruments, firing up the drum triggers and amps. The sound guy gives the thumbs up, and Zack cranks his knobs until the open string rattle of his guitar shakes every floorboard in the room, and people start gathering around the stage.

For 22 hours a day we’re just a bunch of misguided, adolescent assholes with too much free time and the self control of grade school children, but for those 2 hours that we spend on stage we are something that surpasses everything we thought we knew about ourselves.

We are an oiled machine, and for just the 2 hours a day we spend together synchronized in an inexplicable chaos, I feel like myself; and if not myself, then at least someone I could get along with.

I wrap the microphone cord around my hand in a dozen places and take a deep breath. Sipping water, and hiking my gym shorts up past my gnarled high tops, I complete the ritual with a silent nod to Scott and Zack. The crowd is watching, waiting for me to do something, and suddenly everything turns white. The lights flicker on above the banner of our album cover hung on the wall behind us, the explosion of thuds and cymbal crashes echo all around me through every speaker and corner of the bar, and everything is… well,  fine.

Everything is going to be just fine.

Reese Witherspoon’s face scares me. Like if I came in too fast for a kiss her razor sharp nose and chin might slice open my jugular and Id bleed to death.

Hobos love Old English. Its like hobo gold. I wonder if the Old English factory is run by hobos. I can’t imagine any group respectable human beings brewing something so foul.

People always invite me to shows with the draw that there’s gonna be ‘a ton’ of bands. Why would I want to go to a show with ‘a ton’ of random bands?

That’s like trying to get someone to go to a movie opening by telling them there’s going to be ‘a ton’ of random movies. Thank you sir, but when I want to see a movie, I pick the one I want and go to it. I have the time nor energy to wade through 6 hours of amatuer musicians in the hopes that one of them are good.