The Rage Within

Have you ever had a wonderful customer service experience that made you feel happy, elated or even just a bit more than satisfied? Well this blog post is not for you. If you’ve been neglected, fucked over, or treated like a criminal keep on reading.

My issues began almost 5 months ago. For some reason I wanted to check my prepaid card balance on my WetZeller card. (names have been changed to protect the guilty, cuz that’s how me do in Merica.) Well it just was not right, there was nothing there. There should have been something.

Well I call in to these lovely folks and get some guy with a thick Indian accent. Pretty standard for a lot of low rate companies or tech companies. I get a canned response and dispute the charge when I find out what it is. A purchase at a Walmart. OMG NO NO NO. Yuck. I haven’t bought anything at a Walmart since I found my soul. The sneakers I bought there once succumbed to the rain. I have been through every addiction on the planet and Walmart actually provided the low point of my life. I bought their underwear. That will forever be my low. The Wets say they will get back to me in 24-48 hours.

Fast forward 3 weeks and 4 calls later. Every call I get the same canned 24-48 hour response repeatedly.  The Indian guy turned out to be a blessing. It was Bulgarians, Jamaicans and gypsy thieves after that.  The Jamaican woman decided that when I raised my voice mid sentence, she was going to shout into the phone at me. That was tons of fun because I had to hold back. I still did want my money back so I could not bust out with much other then lamely calling her a mean person.

My frustrations continue another week. A full month later I get a response asking for IDs, police reports, a copy of my bank statement, license, proof of residence and proof that I was in my country at the time of the transaction.  Deadline:one week. Otherwise they would assume that I was completely full of shit.  Now I get ID and police report but I have never been asked for proof I was in my country. I do have a smartphone so I clearly can prove it did not leave this area, but I don’t really have proof I am where I am on a daily basis. There is no need for me to be a daily consumer of anything other then food, water and oxygen. I don’t slither to a methadone clinic everyday, clock in at a job, or go to adult day care so this could be an issue.

 

The ironic part of all of this is this was all over $50. You would think it would be some insane amount like $5000 or even $500 but no a mere $50. This was the time I also found out the charge was in California. I’m a fucking friend in Pennsylvania  who made a charge 7 hours before the fake one. So basically I would have had to hijack a plane from the local airport, convince the flight to head to LA, convince the police to escort me high speed to some random Walmart in the LA Suburbs so I could randomly buy $50 worth of bullshit, and then take a flight directly home so I could call the next day and cry fraud.  I wouldn’t fly around that quickly if I stole 5 million dollars and certainly not for $50.

 

Luckily I had been to the doctors that day. I only go every 6 weeks so I happened to luck out. Otherwise these crooks would have absolutely taken my money. Still though I had to not only provide completely detailed receipts but had to get a “permission slip” from my doctor saying I was there. Then I had to get it notarized. I still have no clue why this was necessary other then to try and make my issue cost more then $50 for me to solve so my money could be pocketed.

Then the wait happened. Again. My EuroTrash contact would string me along a little at a time. She needed a clearer license picture. She needed the monthly statement of my charges, not just the page I printed out. It seemingly went on forever. It was only 3 months in all actuality.

 

Then I go the great news seemingly out of the blue. Your money has been refunded. I am not sure if this happened so suddenly because I threatened to get my local government involved. It only took 3 days after I made that promise for my money to get back to me.

The money was staring at me in my account. Yet it showed up as being a rejected refund. No one knew what was going on when I called in. I waited 2 more weeks for them to tell me it was available. So I tried to use the money right away. Decline, decline, decline. Someone then suddenly knew what they were doing and said we need to cancel your card and issue you a new one.

This is the part that got me going absolutely batshit. Why wouldn’t you have cancelled the card right away when I told you 4 months ago? Were you waiting for me to put more money on my account so you could buy some suspect meat, forbidden fruit, or earbuds that make music sound like something that is used as a torture device? Waiting for me to send in my bank statement with the account number included?

 

So I had to wait for this card to come in the mail an additional 2 weeks. It finally came, I gambled the money away rather quickly and chopped that shit up. It was found money so there was no need to save it or buy anything worthwhile. I put it into the same category as drug money or escorting money. It should be spent as quickly as possible.

All in all, my ordeal ended up taking me 3 days short of a full 5 months to get a refund. The extra month of waiting after they refunded me was just the cherry on top.

I sort of wish the rage would continue. It was great motivation for losing weight, running and punching things. I probably should have bought a punching bag but being the reincarnated Jew that I am and current part mad Russian I decided the wall would be better. I must say the wall held up much better then my knuckles.

The rage ended. Or a brief period. Then something worse then fraud came along.

A peppy middle aged woman lacking a sex life. She was not trying to get with me so I can still breathe.  She is next in the crossfire…….

 

Enjoy the Silence?

Silence is cherished by many people in this world. Personally I cannot handle it one iota whatsoever. That awkward silence when you meet someone new and realize they completely suck balls. When there is nothing more to say, nothing more to do. When you try and make small talk with someone (which I hardly ever do) and they give you that dumbfounded look or just a nod of the head.

Even in non-social situations I absolutely cannot stand it. I suppose I like the song Silent Night, but truth be told, the only holy nights I am having these years involves far different holes then the original song and mainly mine getting penetrated.  I can grow a very poor beard so I’m definitely not Jesusy in the least unless you prescribe to the theory he was a homo.

I more or less go with the Trump theory. Jesus is fake news.

Silence is meant for death. Now that also does not mean I want you to never shut the fuck up either. Those people have a special place in hell and hopefully are not very chaste because a dick in their mouth is pretty much the only thing that will ever get them to be quiet. I’d prefer it be a nasty dick maybe they will get some disease of the mouth, but nothing fatal, I mean I’m not a total bitch. Most STDs have cures these days.

I cannot wake up in the morning without hearing some kind of music within the first 5 minutes of being awake. If it even takes that long. Today it took longer. I got into a massive fight with Alexa. She can be a real fickle bitch at times. After about 5 tries of having her fail miserable, she got thrown across the room. She is okay and said she will not press charges, so I am quite the happy camper.  She really just do not seem to like my using my Spotify or playing music anywhere except out of her sorry ass speaker. At least she beat boxes better then me.

When I try and read something I have a real lot of difficulty doing so when there is silence. I mean I cannot listen to metal and read though I haven’t really tried. Quite possibly with some pussy hair metal garbage from the 80s I could but legit death metal would put me to the test. Honestly the more layers, instruments, words that are not screams, the better.

I feel a bit odd that I can do this. It’s probably not exactly normal reading and listening to music. I also tend to have a whiteboard by me at the same moment, jotting down randomness. It’s the exact moment I wish I had some kind of music talent as well but maybe I will tap into that some day as well. Because even though I am no longer a teenager, when someone says no you can’t do that to me, all I hear is a big resounding “Yes.”

Silence when shopping is one of the worst things in the world too. Seriously if I do not have my earbuds with me at the store when I’m there alone, I will turn around and the shopping will happen another day. I don’t want to hear your child, your musak, your rascal shooter, or about your hard ass day. Just stop,stop, stop!!!!

Maybe this is the millennial side of me. I’m kinda like a frosted mini wheat generationally speaking.  I think the proper term for it according to the internet is the AOL generation. I prefer to think of myself as generation fuck you. As in most of the time you are more then likely an idiot and while I really want to tell you to go fuck yourself, I will show restraint but only because the Jameson hasn’t paid me a visit yet.

So now I will sleep with the music blaring, reading a book by the candlelight, and with the TV on with close captioning so just in case I happen to sneeze I will have something to keep me busy for those 5.9 seconds it takes me to blow my nose. Please silence stay away.

Puddles, Insomnia, Ghosts

(All my blogs from now will have a song attached that tries to go with the blog ranging from quite well to quite well but only after 10 mixed drinks. link is below my ramblings.)

I had great big plans for today. A wonderful schedule written on the whiteboard. A premade breakfast in its properly place. And then you showed up. It happened when I least expected it. It always does.

Your face showed up on my ceiling. In between the tears that tasted so salty on my lips, I caught your glimpse. I briefly smelled your scent, heard you tapping at my window. Then it was all gone, just as soon as it began.

My puddle diver. I cannot believe it has been over five years since you went away. It seems like it were just yesterday. That I could see your smiling face. Hear your carefree.

Sure, I have to dig a little deeper ago then five years, because five years ago you had lost your shine. Well not the shine, I could never see you not bathed in some kind of wonderful light. Time had taken away your smile. Time had dulled a certain part of what made you so wonderful to me. It was subtle at times but probably was much deeper. All I could see at times was my ignorance in a reflection.

I know you are still here even as I write these lines. I’m for some reason listening to Ani DiFranco. She was always more your lesbian side. Mine was this ridiculous interest in sports, but not like playing them because I didn’t want to mess up my great skin.

We were once young and well in comparison to you I guess I am the younger one now. Any age is a much more desired one then the agelessness being a corpse provides. Ageless beauty is some myth an undertaker decided to vomit onto the general population one too many moons ago.

I still remember painting with you. I had camped out at your house for an entire week, not some stormy weekend that eventually became our trademark (and demise.) You painted me a shirt. It was the silliest thing ever yet I cherished it so much. I even wore it in public a few times. I was so proud to wear your colors.

Then I threw all the colors out the window. We all did. It was my own personal prequel to 13 Reasons Why. I was such a horrible person that I’m sure I would have made the list more then once. So afraid to help because I was still so afraid of how I felt about you. I was always completely petrified. Even though you are gone, I’m still lost because of you.

Yet here I am now. I’ve been waiting 5 years to write this. As if I am somehow immortal. Some alien form that is going to outlast the cockroaches. Sadly, this shan’t be the case. I simply want redemption. While I cannot have this with you, it is something I deeply need for myself.

I cannot sit my the window any longer watching life pass me by. Instead, I will run. Flat on my face. I will fall. A lot.  It is no longer my time to just stare out at the rain.  Because I am the storm. And you forever are my Puddle Diver.



A Fire Under My Arse

As I woke up feeling completely refreshed for the day at the everlastingly early hour of 9pm, I decided to do things different. This whole equinoxial load of crap had been taking its toll on me. Science says it has to happen but the far trappings of my mind are pure fire and brimstone.

Half and half? Half and half, you say? Well fuck that. Would you really want half and half in your daily life? I mean sure if you are my father you can put it in your coffee. The real world outside of your morning joe says oh the fuck no. Your wife is pregnant, so that is good. But the other half of you is on Maury being told emphatically, “You are NOT the father!!!!”.

You could have only gotten half the answers right on a test. You work at a bank and randomly decided to give half the people the right amount of money. You get halfway to an orgasm. So yeah the general principal does suck a hell of a fucking lot. I want things to be whole. I want myself to be whole.

Truth is when it comes down to it, we are all just a bunch of fragments bunched up into the frame that we were given. Molded together however we so choose to be.

Enough of the crap though this is not why I am really here. I am ready to have a bowel movement. The good kind. The kind a doctor would loom over the toilet bowl peer down at and say, “Why that is a healthy shit sir!”

Don’t you worry though my friend. I am not taking it on you, you or you (yes you, you lazy fuck you know who you are). My sphincter has its eye set on one person and one person alone. That is you Ms. Tori Amos. (thank you Less for getting me all riled up)

The thing is though I haven’t really always hated Tori Amos. In fact, I was one of her biggest fans. I bought all her albums, her b-sides, went to the shows. I even planned to follow her cross country, but alas that is an ill-fated tale for a blog never to be written.

I will say one nice thing about her though and a bit of a counterpoint to Less. Yes, her lyrics are extraordinarily vague but half of artists out there are vague as fuck and then the other half are Justin Bieber and friends. This is actually one of her stronger points. If it’s all spelled out in black and white sure more people might relate. Vagueness does inspire a certain group of haters. I should know I prefer to be vague as it is much better to maneuver around half truths, unspoken words, and the like.

Still though for years and years, I had this deep admiration for this woman. Call it youthful ignorance, call it what you may. I met some of the best friends I had ever had because of the love shared for her. It was a bit Me and A Gun.  Other times it was a Sorta Fairytale and A Cloud on My Tongue.

That all changed on one fateful night. Ten years ago. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I got to meet my hero or well anti-hero. I did not know what to expect.  Someone who was charming and wanted to meet her fans was a good start in my head. I did not want to come across as too cheery but who am I kidding? There is only person in the world who can make me that cheery. Thank you Molly.

This waif of a woman walked over. She was a hell of a lot fucking smaller then I had ever imagined. I mean she is a woman and I did not expect her to be Brienne of Tarth. She just looked like someone who I would walk up to on the street and be compelled to pull a cookie out of my pocket and feed to her. That cookie, you know, I may even have to chew it for her. I instantly knew what the song Girl Disappearing was about it. It was about this cokehead chick.

So you know the celebrity jitters like instantly wore off and my mom’s voice saying, “If you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything” came rushing through my head. My friend Taylor spouted off some kind of soapy bullshit and had me take a selfie. Then it was my turn. I may have said something nice or how my other friend plays her by ear I’m not really sure. She was just so uninterested that I kinda soaked in the same general vibe. Maybe she caught my aghast scowl.

That night changed me. It was like the last bit of childhood naivety being ripped from my chest. It started the moment I was 10 and found out on the news that the Tooth Fairy was a fraud. It ended with you Tori Amos.

I must say as uninterested as you were meeting the fans with your generalized look of Feed Me, I’m A Professional Widow on your face you did put on one hell of a show. In fact the best I had seen until I had the chance to witness Pearl Jam several years back. It was a cold rainy autumn evening and the playlist was reflective of the sort. Then the song that changed it all played. Famous Blue Raincoat. It was the song that played my innocence off the stage, out of the building, into the ether.

I cannot blame you for all this directly so maybe this blog is more of a Hershey squirt and less of a dirty Sanchez for you. I probably should be thanking Leonard Cohen just as much for that song, but it was you who took me there.  I guess that song playing itself out with my one of my greatest loves I will ever have taking his life and the other love in my life rapidly becoming dead to me.

I could not relate as much to your music, mostly the new albums you dropped. In just that one moment, something shut off inside of me. It may be a good thing, there’s been more calculation and clarity since that moment. I guess opinions vary on the end of innocence.

Everything though about that night. I had to wear sunglasses at the show because of the lighting, I realized that my epilepsy was real and would have to live with it. Just so much of a flood of horseshit that at the time I could not even recognize. So Tori Amos… I have a few choice words for you. Fuck you. Thank you. I’ll Make Sure to Wipe.

 

 

We’ll Make Great Pets? By Spacedog

The first half of my day yesterday was complete garbage. It consisted of sitting in traffic for an hour, getting two different credit cards declined (special shout out to Wawa and Boscovs), sitting in traffic for 2 hours and contemplating peeing my pants because I had a towel to sit on and was on my way home.

As void of intrigue and drama as I tend to be, I chose against peeing myself. This isn’t about pee though. I mean it felt absolutely amazing to do so at that point but that being the highlight of my mediocre day was not quite mediocre enough yet. I decided to do one of the most boring things that the era of the Internet has ever bought upon us. I decided to clean out my e-mail.

Now I have way too many e-mails. I know of 7 different accounts, but there probably exist a multitude of others at very dead sites. AOL, Yahoo, Juno, Hotmail, Myspace. I’d rather not read the ancient e-mails I sent in my 20s or from the dawn of time (the 90s) because well I mostly sit and think who the fuck was that guy.

So I decided to actually open up an e-mail from a random social media site called Hi5. It is not the greatest site but not the worst unless you take into account the people they tell you to speak converse with. I would show my last recommendations but just imagine a cohabitation of meth users, the morbidly obese, and people who look like an attractive young man but sadly the picture is clearly on 1970s quality film.

There is one bizarre thing this site does have. I really have never seen anything quite like it. While Facebook has (or had?) pokes, the gays have their woofs, every site has likes and Myspace has ghosts Hi5 has pets. What is the point of pets? I haven’t the slightest idea. I bought my first pet about six years ago in that time period when Myspace just died and your mom wasn’t quite on Facebook yet.

Every member is up for sale with virtual cash. I don’t know if I started with it or watched a video or two or to earn more but I just started buying cute guys. I wanted a decent amount from each country to diversify I suppose. It was basically just a bunch of clicking and clicking and clicking and I grew tired of it rather quickly.

The entire site as a matter of fact. It is like the Craigslist of social media, an odd blend of when MySpace was legit, old school AOL and creepy guys that lurk in oversized vans. The pet thing made me take the opposite approach though when I got unwanted attention. I would just buy people instead of block them.

And oh I bought them. The straights, the gays, the ladies, I even bought myself a big boned lady with a great big retard smile. I only wasted maybe 2 hours of my life doing this in total of my entire life. I really wonder though what was the point of all of this? I was owned by some lady (or man pretending to be a model, this lady was unreal looking Brazilian goddess). There were many messages of I love you and I love my pets on my page over the past few years which only make me laugh my ass off. I mean I like love and all, who really doesn’t when it comes to it, but this woman took the pet thing all too seriously.

I mean I could message all these pets of mine or meme them to death, but I feel more connected to the people I met on a Greyhound bus 15 years ago, despite not having talked to them in 15 years. I’m clicking on links right now but I am not even really sure why. I could be eating, exercising, masturbating, actually texting more then one person, actually paying attention to my TV or my music which are inexplicably both on for some reason.

I mean I guess it could have been worse. I could have bought only blacks and dreamed of my past life on a plantation but I’m Polish and the only black things we’ve ever owned are prune babkas. I could be a peddler of midgets. This seems like a fantastic type of journey I suppose, except I can’t search for people by height and would probably have to click no about 1,000 times to find one midget let alone an armada of midgets.

I could collect the deformed. I’m pretty sure this would involve way less clicking but since you are the company you keep I would just be the product of looking at ugly people, become incredibly hideous, and 400 pounds while clicking faster then any sized person barring maybe a handful of Korean Starcraft players.

Long story, long… this shit is weird as fuck. In some virtual reality type mall where I could see these people it would be funny to go up and buy people in a window but frankly I’d buy someone naked. So rest assured, I know too will get naked and become one with the night.

If you want to check out these oddities for yourself, head over to hi5.com. Check out the meager selection from the dating pool, the dead accounts, and waste an hour or so buying some pets. I can promise they won’t give you rabies over your connection, but carpal tunnel may be in your future if you happen to be riding the tsunami of boredom.

Dear Me Oh My Shut The Fuck Up Already!!! By Spacedog

Life is about many things to many different people. Family, friends, money, health, wealth…. the list is endless. Each means something different to us. Some mean nothing at all.

Then there is the other end of the spectrum. Our vices. The sex, drugs and rock&roll part of our brains. Everyone has one or ten or hundreds. I tend to gravitate towards the higher end of the spectrum. I’m not sure if I could list 100 vices off the top of my head but if I could I would easily be into more than half of them.

Not that I do them every day or really all that often at all. The worst things I probably do on a daily basis is smoking cigarettes. Everything else is merely on an as wanted schedule. Sometimes there is discipline involved. Other times it is just complete debauchery and out of control.

Age has mellowed me somewhat though. Instead of indulging way too frequently like in my 20s, I usually just get angry now at certain things on my television set and in the real world.

First of all, ANY AND ALL anti commercials really need to get the FUCK off my television. Tell me to quit smoking while I have a nicotine patch on and haven’t thought about a cigarette in 3 days and well I got the subconscious thought to go out and buy a pack. Tell me not to drink and drive and I then am thinking about whether I should get drunk tonight.

Fortunately one such thing I have grown out of is trying that one random drug or ten. Most of the unknown drugs I tried I heard about on the evening or nightly local news. I get that these news types think that no druggies are watching their programs because obviously how could they possibly be interested in anything other than drugs. All promoted under the guise of protect the children which leads me to the next point.

FUCK THE KIDS! Not like Michael Jackson fuck or like Ray Rice fuck the kids in the face. I always hear about stupid shit to protect the children. I can’t go buy a pack of ten cigarettes because of oh the children. The children. Yet I can buy an airline bottle of alcohol, a single bullet of ammo, a nickle bag of weed (yes they still exist), or a small amount of pretty much anything  else considered a vice.

Some states are incredibly ridiculous with the save the children crap. Hawaii just passed a law making the smoking age 21 and New Jersey just attempted to do the same. So you can serve and die in the military and potentially die at any moment yet you can’t go on the 30-50 year death sentence known as nicotine. They need to chill out. New Jersey is even worse. They want kids to drive around with a sticker on the back of the car if under 21 and not have them drive after certain hours. Now I know I said fuck the kids but while that would stop me from well fucking kids or buying someone underage alcohol, it only means one thing. The cops get to fuck the kids. I don’t want to fuck them like that hard, unless they are in college and sex with someone potentially that inexperienced is like A Tale of Two Cities. The best of times, the worst of times.

So I’m kinda drifting like a butterfly. I really should have wrote this earlier in the day when I was just raging mad. I got a call from a friend after I left an angry voicemail about Sprint sucking fat donkey balls. I can’t roll around and listen to Spotify with them and the several phone calls I do make a week well sadly unless I call people at midnight they drop like an 80 year old’s nutsack.

So I bitched and then she said don’t drink tonight. Not that it was any of her business what the fuck I am doing later on. I really had not even given getting drunk tonight even a glance. It all goes back to do not tell me what I should not do. If you want to give me something positive to do by all means just do not tell me what not to do.

It is the reason I also have total beef with any of those absolutely fucking retarded anonymous programs. I have been to many and will be going to many again soon as part of my undercover look into boring myself into a bottle of rum. Let’s sit around and rehash old stories and bitch and whine and moan and talk about Jesus.

I seriously had issues with alcohol in the past and would be chill with well just not drinking. It makes me fat and severely obsessive. No thank you. Yet through AA I can honestly say the only thing positive I ever got out of it was roughly 10 blow jobs. Other then my 12 pack of Miller Lite cure for the common cold I had not touched a drop for over a month. (Save your fucking medal and clapping.) I only thought about it twice before I got sick. Yet in an average AA meeting alcohol is brought up 20-40 times depending on the type of meeting. Whatever happened to out of sight, out of mind? I guess stupidity won this ballgame.

So I think my beef has run out for this evening. If I typed every vice related issue I want to address, I would never leave this seat. So what exactly gets on your last nerves? Or who would you like to tell to go fuck themselves?

Fat Shaming is Motivation You Fucking Cowards by Spacedog

It was 4 in the morning at the end of December, but the one thing I was not doing was writing a letter. I was a bit mortified of what stared back at me in the mirror. Mainly because it was a lot larger then I was used to. With a great deal of sloth and investments in GrubHub, I had packed on roughly 40 pounds in the past year. I wasn’t quite sure what I said about a year before that resulted in the great big “Fuck It” but it happened.

So as people began their New Years resolutions trying to better themselves, improving the world and living with more virtue the only thing that struck me was this. Let’s go all in. I wanted to see what would be like to be super fat. Well on the edge of morbidly obese that is. I decided to get started right away.

For the next month I wanted to see what it would take to do so. More then likely I probably ate roughly 6 months worth of food and consumed 2 years worth of alcohol compared to what I was accustomed to at my normal weight of 160. The goal was to pack on enough weight to hit 250. I ended up at 248 for a staggering gain of 28 pounds in one month. I tried hard at those last 2 pounds but honestly I felt horrid and miserable the entire time and needed it to end as soon as possible.

I cannot fathom how one would willfully ever decide to get this large on their own without going into a complete freak out panic mode. I literally was going into one the second week in. Sure if I had stayed drunk the entire 30 days, I probably could have gained more weight but I wanted to at least have some idea how these extreme excess weight made me feel and not be in some perpetual blackout.

The somewhat average weight and height of 5’10 and 200 pounds being a male in their late 30s gives one a certain anonymity. As I got slowly heavier and heavier it gave quite the opposite effect.  I got disdainful stares. I no longer could slink my way into doors at the convenience stores with people next to me. I no longer received the same niceties when frequenting retail establishments. I got stuck wedged between a toilet and a door on a bathroom floor. It goes on and on.

I signed up for a fatty cattle call hook-up meat market app called Bigger City. I really ginned up my profile, well instead of interests or anything interesting I just listed food. Instead of a headless torso, I just put up a picture of my giant ever-growing gut. Immediately I got 5 responses. I was a bit taken aback but willing to listen to what these “chasers” had to say. For those of you unfamiliar with gay slang, a chaser is someone that specifically desires a fatty. I will not bore you with the first 4 responses but the response number 5 was a humdinger.

Apparently, this is a thing. I shouldn’t be surprised that anything is a thing these days with the billions of people living in our world. I’m sure someone out there shits in their meatloaf and feeds it to their unsuspecting family or there is someone that only eats bagels they allow to soak in beer overnight. This man wanted me to come over and basically feed me copious amounts of food. I really thought about doing it for the sake of the blog but discomfort and a preference to feed actual whales rather then this whale being fed turned it a big hard NO.

Another harrowing encounter was at a nightclub. This was one I totally brought on myself early on evening before the drunken blackout occurred. I went with a sober friend to a local nightclub called The Raven. My goal. Attempt to find the hottest guy in there, preferable younger, to just make overt sexual advances at in the hopes of rejection. While being more of a local stop and less of a destination for perfect tens, I found someone that reasonably looked like a 9, though my sober friend said 7 or 8. Good enough I thought. I casually passed by and for the first time in my life I sorta made a half hearted “woof” sound at him. Personally, I think that gay mating call is not only retarded but like retard with an IQ of 70 so not like functioning retard.

It all happened quite quickly and fast after that. Much I do not remember. The drinks are quite strong at the Raven, enough so there is a 3 Long Island Ice Tea max and you are cut off. I’m pretty sure I must have been somewhere deep in my third. Anyway I’m not really sure what was said but eventually I go out for a cigarette with this guy after buying him a drink. He went into some winded diatribe about how I personally was what was wrong with the gay community and why would I ever think someone like him would ever consider a beached whale such as me. Now normally, this would leave me dejected but it was exactly what I was looking for. Mission accomplished. Thanks for the motivation green eyes.

So now that I am morbidly obese (I just barely made it at 35.4 BMI and probably higher body fat at least in the middle) it is time to cut out the bullshit. It really will not be that hard. While a bit disconcerting that I cannot really handle doing more then 5 minutes of my Insanity and Tapout DVDs nor 98 percent of the crossfit activities I am foaming at the mouth to do I kind of accept it. Losing weight is honestly the easiest thing in the world. I am completely fucking tired of people who moan and groan and bullshit about this all the time.

The worst are the ones who say, “I hardly eat.” Hi, if you are 300 pounds and staying that way and not bound to a wheelchair or on some shitty medicine then guess what you eat too much you gluttonous fuck. Get up, move. Shut your pie hole.

Even worse are the women who gab and gab and gab on the treadmill while walking at not even 3.0 mph, try 2 mph. If you are 500 pounds you or can barely walk you get a pass but seriously no pain no gain. If you do not bleed, do not sweat, do not get the chubrub thighs, or get a little bit angry move along. I hear the diner down the road has great cream pies.

I’ve done this before. Lost 60 pounds, gained 80, lost 100 gained 120. I am officially done with the seesaw. I wanted this time to be more dramatic though. I have personally visited three of my exes in the past week so they can experience the full glory of the horror. I want to smear myself in their faces when I am through. Well not really. It just is some great motivation. What good is it to do something completely dramatic if no one is there to bear witness. It is no fun indeed.

Anyway this is easy people. This isn’t finding your Romeo and Juliet soulmate. This isn’t searching for the ultimate orgasm. This isn’t auto fellatio on your tiny little dick. This isn’t going from a homeless mute to an Academy Award winning actor in less then a year. It is too fucking simple.

One last thing I’m actually no longer 248 pounds. Down to 233 now in a little under 3 weeks. I’ve entered a few cash weight loss competitions and sadly I may have to eat more then the 2000 calorie a day diet I am currently on as to not lose too much weight and get disqualified from one of them. It is a bit ironic that I may have to literally stuff my face again because I am doing too good of a job. I haven’t a drop of liquor in 3 weeks and fear I may have to drink quite a lot of rum to even have the desire to consume so much food. Life is not always fair, even for those who choose to thrive.