I need to get the heck out of here.  I’m flipping out right now because the carpet in the upstairs hallway looks awful.  It used to be new and plush but because everybody trudges on it with their shoes it looks like crap.  So, I've spent the last five minutes trying to bring it back to life one fiber at a time. 

I get stressed out about things like this.  For instance, someone in my family can’t put the house key into the door lock if their life depended on it.  A brand new door and the lock already has chips about it.  For god sakes, line up the key and stick it in the hole!  There's no need for all this poking around.  We're not blind men trying to find our way with a walking stick.  I guess I should expect this though seeing how most people can’t even urinate into a toilet without getting it all over the place.  I think teachers at early education schools need to spend more time doing eye and hand coordination exercises. 

See, I myself have never had a problem with eye and hand coordination.  And me and my penis have a very good relationship because of it.  I don’t go reaching for my dick and accidentally grab my balls.  Likewise, I don’t fuck up when I try to put a key in the door. 

Eh, maybe I should be more accepting of the way people are.  If a person goes to pick his nose and accidentally pokes himself in the eye then who gives a flying fuck.  If he goes blind who cares.  His eyes weren’t working for him anyway. 

Maybe next time I have sex I'll put my penis in the girls ass instead of her vajoohoo and if she gets upset I'll just explain that I have bad coordination.

My mom pulled me aside tonight and asked me if she might tell me something without my getting mad.  I said I wouldn’t.  I was obviously curious about what she wanted to tell me.  So, she tells me that I’m getting a rather large stomach and I should stop eating so much.  As promised I didn’t get mad.  I don’t know why she felt the need to tell me that though.  I’m aware of the fact that I have gained weight and am quite heavy.  It’s not like I’m kidding myself into thinking that I am skinny.  I know I’m fat.  The thing is I don’t care.  My life isn’t the greatest.  I don’t live it to my ideal vision.  There are things that I wish could be different but I don’t feel much like changing them.  I’m content spending the day sleeping in my bed dreaming about whatever it is I dream about.  I usually have great dreams too except for the occasional trip to Freudian town.  So what, every time I walk up a flight of stairs I’m sucking wind harder than a girl would a taquito.  So what, when I sit straight up my stomach folds into two sections, I’m still not a cow.  They have four stomachs.  Yes, my knees are struggling to hold my weight.  Yes, the extra weight is putting a strain on my back.  Yes, my penis now looks smaller than it ever has before.  At least I think it does.  I haven’t seen it for quite some time now.  There are negatives to being fat.  There are, however, some positives as well.  I have a shelf with which to place my beer or snacks.  When crumbs fall from my mouth they are no longer lost to the floor.  They fall onto my shelf-stomach and I’m able to grab them quickly and shove them into my mouth.  Waste not.  Another plus: I get to eat, eat, and eat.  Who wouldn’t like to do that?  And if I continue on this path I will eventually put a considerable strain on my heart and my life will end prematurely.  Sounds good to me.  So, in conclusion, I think that being the butterball that I am is in a way a blessing.  Yes, a blessing.  Bless me.  Bless you.  Bless the trees.  Bless the bees.  And bless this taco that I’m currently shoving into my pie hole.

Not too long ago I had a breakdown.  I hit rock bottom.  This rage had been building inside of me for quite some time.  I didn’t know what was causing it.  In fact, everything seemed to be causing it.  No matter where I was or what I was doing I managed to come across something that saddened me, annoyed me, or downright pissed me off.  I was in a public restroom when I finally snapped.  I was trying to gather some toilet paper into my hand but it was proving quite difficult.  The paper kept tearing into the smallest little pieces which would have been fine I guess if I wanted to wipe my ass with one finger.  It just drove me insane.  Unable to negotiate the toilet paper successfully I flipped out and threw a hissy fit.  I kicked the walls of the bathroom stall.  I punched the walls of the bathroom stall.  I threw pieces of toilet paper at them.  Yeah, there isn’t much to destroy when you’re in a bathroom stall.  So, I spit on them.  I cursed at them.  I shot them dirty looks.  I took out my pen and wrote “Fuck you walls!”  When I finally ran out of ideas I simply left the bathroom.  Frustrated beyond anything I ever felt before I considered going on a murderous rampage or simply taking my own life.  So, naturally I sunk my sorrows into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream.  I then spent the next few days in solitude.  I stayed in bed mostly just thinking about things.  I thought about my past.  I thought about the present.  I said “Fuck you.  Leave me alone” to the future.  I don’t want a future.  I just want to sleep.  I want to dream.  I want a cookie.

I’m going to have go out and get thermal underwear because it’s a fucking icebox in here from time to time.  For some reason I get matched up with people who have never heard of a thing called room temperature (for those of you who don’t know what temperature that is it’s 72 degrees). 

I went on a little road trip with my buddy Andrew to Greensboro, North Carolina to see the ACC women’s basketball tournament.  Though the overall trip was pretty enjoyable it wasn’t without its complications.  What in my life ever is?  At journey’s end it was a journey of a thousand miles.  Three hundred thirty three miles there, three hundred thirty three miles back, and three hundred thirty three more in the two days we were down there. 

Now, if you do the math and add those three numbers you’d get 999.  If you did the math and are bothered by the fact that I called the trip “a journey of a thousand miles” instead of a “journey of 999 miles” then get a life.  I only mention this because I know some of you reading this are going to ask me how I got one thousand.  Seriously, if it really means that much to you that the numbers be accurate then just know that I will drive one more mile for you.  In fact, you can come along for the ride.  See, after I beat you with my Louisville Slugger I’d be more than happy to tie you to the tailpipe of my car and drag your ass for a mile down the road.

Back to my story - I wouldn’t mind that the trip required so much driving if only it actually required that much driving.  See, everything that Andrew and I wanted to go to in the way of stores was within a couple of miles of the hotel.  The only reason that we drove over three hundred firkin’ miles was – well, it was Andrew.  He has to be the worst shotgun I have ever had.  I’m the one making all the turns but the purpose of bringing him along was so that he could give me directions; remember landmarks, street names, remember anything!  

It’s not that I wasn’t paying attention to where we were going.  It’s not that I had no idea how to get back, I did.  In fact, on numerous occasions I was going to make a turn, asked him to verify if it was correct (my mistake), and he would say something to the effect of ‘No, this is not where we need to turn…The turn is further up the road.”  And he would be wrong every single time.  Every single time.  He sounded so sure of himself too.  That’s why I kept listening to him!  But, he was always wrong.  The best part is that where I wanted to turn usually was the right way to go. 

On one of our fun little excursions we stopped at a Wal-Mart so he could buy swim shorts.  It took us an hour to get back to the hotel.  When we finally got there I looked across the street and there was the Wal-Mart.  It was unreal.  Un-fuckin’-believable. 

One time we were on a highway goin’ South and we wanted to get off at exit-123.  So, we’re driving along…reading the exits…126, 125, 124, 122 – what the hell happened to 123?  Did we miss it?  So, we turn around.  121, 122, 124 – still missing!  We did this several more times, the going back and forth.  We figured we must have really bad A.D.D. and lost focus every time we got to exit-123.  I mean what kinda fucked up highway would that have to be to just skip a number like that.  Turns out we were on route 85 not interstate 85 and that caused us to joyride up and down the highway like jackasses.  That stumped us both so I can't blame Andrew for that one.

I can however blame him for one more thing - bugs.  See, the hotel we stayed at had a balcony. Andrew insisted upon going outside to see what the weather conditions were like before we'd leave the room.  Even though he could look out the window and see that it was raining he had to go out there.  Personally, I wouldn't have to feel the rain in order to make a decision as to what to do.  I'd grab a fucking umbrella.  But, whatever floats his boat right?

Well, him opening the door was a problem because he kept letting beetles into the room.  So, when I was trying to create a poster to bring to the game I had a beetle crawling up my neck, another one between my toes, and several more on the poster itself.  I took a shoe and I was ready to squash ‘em but Andrew was adamant about putting them back outside.  So, he picked them up, opened the door again and threw them out.  And in doing so he let in a dozen more!  What a jackass.