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Changing the Pitch

Mar. 1st, 2009 | 02:50 am

Thats all folks, no more of the livejournal. I have moved on up to my own website which will carry the words you have come to expect from a drunken mess such as myself.

www.ihateyourbirthday.com

Hope to see you there.

And thank you.

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Dear...Whatever Your Name Is

Jan. 26th, 2009 | 05:57 pm

You won't hear me walking through the bedroom door tonight. Won't feel my body slide into bed, next to yours. Won't intake my aftershave through your nostrils as you dream away. Won't turn over and open your eyes to your lover sleeping silently away next to you. All your senses will fail you tonight cause I won't play along. I'm not playing along, and tonight, you're all alone. Cause I'm not there. Not this night, and no longer for any other night. I'm away. Gone fishing, though I didn't even have the decency to bring along the bait for pretense. I'm with another. Someone better. Younger. Skinnier. Sexier. Smarter. I have moved on, evolved while you ate dinner and watched my plate go cold. Four years we spend together and all it took was a few glances and the accompanying drinks for me to forget all about you and fall in love with another. That's gotta tell you something. Good, for that; as it's all you'll get. I'm keeping quiet with this. Playing it cool. Mum's the fucking word.

Amazing how new found options can make you pay closer attention to the status quo. Oh, and I got the options now, babe. Multiple choice has made me realize that I stopped loving you the moment I realized you took time out of your day to shit like everyone else. How crude of you to not be mystical. Package not as advertised, if you ask me. But, that's okay. I got me a new fix on some of the good shit now. Straight up fairy dust. Gonna take me to Never-Never Land to turn the clock back on all the aging you've caused me. I don't think it's unreasonable to blame you for my wrinkles, do you? The gray hair, the bone deficiency in my knees, those sounds of stress as I stand up from my chair? All you. Soon I'll be a schoolboy again with nights of numerous orgasms. Cause I got me a new reason to wake up, and unlike the last one, I'll never need to hit the snooze button to contemplate it over.

You're probably sad. I know. I'm sorry. Not for me, but for the next guy you dazzle. He'll drop like a redwood after some big bastard took the axe to it, and good for him. One day he'll wake up to the ten minute ordeal that it is to urinate, and he'll learn something. You were a college education, of the highest order. Now I'm going to do some deprogramming for a while. Got me a reverse degree going now. In a few weeks I'll be young, dumb, and full of cum all over again. I'm excited. Are you excited? You should be. If you loved me, you'd be excited for me. That was always your problem.

You were always too selfish.

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Cornered

Jan. 22nd, 2009 | 08:42 pm

You do not trifle with the insane. The insane trifles with you. It is important to remember this when you come across a degenerate banker who is holding a knife and mumbling about tax exemptions. Especially in these flat backpocket times, as the bastards seem to be everywhere. This crazed lot should be stayed away from at all costs. They don't want a thing from you except your ability to listen to them; and that is the weirdo fucker type who can really ruin a lunch hour. Takes one to know one, after all.

There are times however, when the truly mad fall upon some luck and get a chance to corner you. This is why so many of them prefer public transportation. There is a great deal of freakishness that can be spread around in-between stops. The subway in New York has grown quite a rep for harboring such a type, their stories being passed around campfires across America in-between Boyscout "cubby-holing". This is your low self-esteem crazy habitat. The kind of crazy you often cross paths with. Though that is hardly that surprising, especially in New York. It's the ones who can afford the new Lexus every year, and drives it till it drops the muffler on the highway like a drunk will his liver on a motel rug; those are the bastards to fear. They don't need the protection of the tunnels to lay into some poor innocent with their jive. They do it in offices, seated in a large leather chair with a speakerphone. And they do it in a suit. Only thing worse than a whacko is a whacko with connections and camouflage. Harder to spot, and far more effective in their game.

I had a run in a few weeks ago with a particularly goofy bastard while on a train heading into the city. Like most people I was passing the lost time of transport with some music flowing through the headphones and the hopes of a really deep level of intoxication to make the trip all worthwhile. This was interrupted however, when the balding woman in the stained jeans and garbage bag jacket ensemble started talking to the automated conductor's voice about God. Atheists often find one sided conversations with God (and really, there are no other kind) quite amusing; however conference calls with God tend to get alarming at a certain point. Including the robotic female voice which announces future train stops in your biblical ranting will stop most people cold, whether or not they are a fan of the Jesus Juice. After a few casual sentences to the reasoning of why the next stop really was the "next' stop, the deranged bag woman stood up and addressed the full of the riders. She spoke in a lilted voice, her words broken by the rhythmic tick tock of her coughing. She drew a few glances, mainly out of boredom from those stuck on the train without reading material, and their attention quickly faded away till she had only one listener. I turned down the screaming shriek of Brian Johnson which was emitting from my music machine and gave the woman as much attention as I could without making direct eye contact. My preference for thick black sunglasses in any situation which occurs outside of my home helped a great deal in this. She spoke of God's hand in our progression through the dark tunnels which stretch under the city like heroin-poisoned veins. How the "Lord above refuses to write ascension into the light in our destiny," and the like. Her bag/crazy person uniform swayed back and forth, producing an underline of "SWOOSH" to her words, as she continued on throughout the ride. Her words sank farther into my gray matter, and as my stop suddenly appeared between the subway car doors, I had to shake myself loose from the competency that overcomes oneself when you are listening to someone with a strong grasp of which they are speaking of...even if it's a monologue by an insane playwright. I squeezed myself through the closing doors and dared a look back at the sick woman on the train. She was still speaking out on God, though unless the so far invisible being actually does exist (talk about a bummer, man), she had lost her only listener. I tried to shrug off the strange trip like any good New Yorker, though as I made the ascension out of the tunnels and into the city, I didn't feel the least bit better for proving the woman wrong about it all.

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Definition #1

Jan. 3rd, 2009 | 02:10 am

Lover: Someone you still want to see, even after you ejaculate.

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Saturday...Sunday...Monday...Tuesday

Dec. 30th, 2008 | 07:50 pm

Don't have to travel too far to become a walking cliche. Most go right from baby stepping to the playpen right into breathing life into parody. Sure, I'm generalizing, but that never hurt a point before; and good or bad, this is a point to be made.

All the fun house mirrors west of the Mississippi can't compete to the twisted visage that hits you when you close yours eyes after you've lost that step. Left foot, right foot. Seemed a lot simpler in the manual. Next thing you know you're waking up on the subway five stops past yours, wondering if that god-awful stink is emitting from your pours or the homeless fellow next to you. If you're a foolhardy sort, you giggle to yourself and get off the train as quickly as you can. If you've got any sense at all, you bow your head down and get off the train as quickly as you can, and hope to catch the next express right on the chin. Do subway car's have windshield wipers? No...but give'em a reason to put it in the budget. Either that or stop complaining about how bald you're going to the guy that sells hats. We all have our troubles, ain't that a thing; though only a certain few have the right to drown in them. The rest of us just get so wrapped up in the romanticism of our lungs filling with water that we forget we're wearing our lifejackets. Shame on anyone who can't swim...they've earned it.

Soon another number will drop after the two zero zero and Y2k seems like a distant joke; just like everything else from yesterday. To quote another, "women were given two holes for a reason, to piss and moan at the same time." Don't know why the ladies got nailed with that one, as it's a bit universial, if not damn true across the boards these days. Men have the same lousy excuses to be miserable as women do...besides the whole crying teen at an abortion clinic thing. That's still all yours, girls.

There is a certain disrespect shown to the truly sad people. Those fucked up individuals who have nothing meeting them with tomorrow's sun but another reason to meet a twirling ceiling fan face to face. When you complain about a failed relationship, the hair on your upper lip which just isn't taking to the electrologist treatments, the coworkers who would be better served as practice for firing squads, the small chances you had to make today better, etc; you only serve to belittle those with real problems. End of the day, fuck it all problems.

My soap box is sea level, I don't look to preach anymore more then I look to listen. I'm ready to cast aside all the petty downers of the day. No, that's a lie. I'm wanting to cast them aside, ready isn't quite in the picture just yet. But I'm working on it...just like the rest of the lucky slobs.

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Probed

Dec. 27th, 2008 | 09:31 pm

"Where am I?"

"You are here. Please refrain from asking stupid questions."

"I...are you an alien?"

"Maybe to you."

"I don't understand..."

"They should hand t-shirts out to your people with that phrase on it. Why must all humans be so dense?"

"Why am I naked?"

"Even in other galaxies it is rude to answer a question with a question, didn't your forebearer tell you that?"

"I thought it was rhetorical."

"Among the many wasted thoughts from your species. next time choose one with more accuracy."

"Where are you taking me?"

"See, that's better. We are taking you nowhere. You've already been taken. Tests have been performed on your kind since it's creation. Few of your kind have passed the tests we have given with such high marks, in fact. You are to join the other high marks on our home planet."

"Are you sure you have the right guy...?"

"I am beginning to doubt that myself."

"Why me?"

"Didn't we already go over that? Your intelligence is lower than your attire would suggest, and as they say from were we come from; 'that's saying something.'"

"We say that too."

"Yes, your human race has lifted many of our humorous commentary over the years. For instance, the joke about why the Molark crossed the road."

"You mean the why the chicken crossed the road, right?"

"Not only must your kind continue on it's unoriginal and misconceived path of existence; you also have to screw up a perfectly good joke."

"Did you give us Jerry Seinfeld?"

"No! That one is all on you. We did however drop off Bobcat Goldthwait."

"No surprise there. So what kind of tests did you give me, anyway?"

"Can you stand up?"

"Of course not, I have this huge metal dildo up my ass!"

"And what did I tell you about asking stupid questions?"

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Whats Today's Date Again?

Dec. 20th, 2008 | 04:53 am

I am not known for my memory.

Anything from the items I had on my plate for breakfast to my parent's wedding anniversary; it's all just dead space for me. I can forget the biggest things in the time it takes to place a moderately complicated order for Chinese takeout, however at times the smallest things tend to stick with me for years. How someones lips looked when they moaned in pleasure, the sound of another's laugh, the time in Macy's when I made a fool of myself by carrying on a drunken conversation with a mannequin.

Sure, it's a tough call on the tree that fell when nobody was around; though the promise that was broken because it wasn't remembered is child's play. Too many losses have been taken on my part simply cause the synapses weren't paying enough attention to the ringing alarm clock. In any decently run society, all power and promise carries weight. Yet, when it comes to the scale of my mind, I am most often left with dust when everyone is looking for solid foundation. Of course I add the spit and prey it will hold together, but I have seen too many structures collapse onto themselves; to be very positive.

Often my memory fails me and those whom I care about, rarely do I wish my recollection was anything but stronger for the day. Today I wish for just that. Get ready for a lot of sentimental nonsense. (Really, by now do you expect anything less?) I am wide awake in the most lonesome hours, accompanied by all the good times from yesterday. For some that might sound like salvation; being able to fill the quiet time with memories of happier days...I am not some. I find myself taunted by what once was, not for any fault or sense of disillusionment that the past held; no, taunted by the "moments of clarity" that tell me that those times are long gone. Lost in the wind like a poorly fashioned yamika. I heard once that everyone thinks that they are the star of their very own romantic comedy, and especially in this culture I believe this to be true. On the flip side, there at those who consider themselves walking Shakespearean tragedies. I don't consider myself capable enough to speak to my own placement, though if I were pressed to make an ass out of you and I, I would assume I am somewhere in the middle. Too much of a hopeless romantic to think it's all said and done till the credits have run their course; too realistic to hope for a happy ending set to some Van Morrison song. Basically, good days and bad. How unique of me.

Fantasies play out in my head as much (if not more so) than anyone else's. I see myself saving the day. I see the waving flag of my side standing tall after the battle. I can even feel the embrace of a past love at the end of a long day...though there are no arms draped over my shoulders. There is more then enough "down time" in the day to entertain oneself with such playfulness, and you're a sleep at the wheel if you let it pass you by. Though every step into fantasy is another chance to screw it all up again; if you don't watch for the traps. Too easily can a daydream of laughter and love turn into a nightmare of tearing your foot from a bear trap in the hopes of escaping a destiny you're too stupid to surrender to.

I have been accused of many things...and no I am not going to make a list here. For you, the reader; the only person who matters to me, those delightful adjectives should be well known by now. I also will not speak to the accuracy of such things. Not just because I find myself often misunderstood (such the artist as I am, ha), but also because it helps me sleep at night believing that I am capable of surprise. Surprises for you to marvel at, and surprise enough for me to justify my missteps. Of course, I know that I am only a man, and there on only so many chances for a man to lose his footing in life without help, so I refrain from nailing myself to any cross. The last guy who did that was remembered for it, instead of what could have been accomplished if only people paid enough attention. And what do you know? We're back in the past again. Yesterday which seemed so lovely, if for no other reason then because hindsight isn't, and never was, 20/20.

What isn't much is usually enough. What I remember from yesterday, last week, the past year, it all adds up. The accounts may not be balanced, hell, most likely they aren't even that accurate. But who cares about how the books are cooked so long as the meal is served? The realist in me realizes that I've had my steak, and the dreamer sees it as just an appetizer. 

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28 Years

Dec. 8th, 2008 | 08:30 pm

Too often a man comes along that we hoist on our shoulders and carry through town, showing him off as if he's a good example of what can be obtained by the human condition. Everyone is looking to be saved, including those who don't look to the skies for such action. Part of a deep hero-worship that we have instilled in our genetic makeup, I think.  Few words have lost their meaning as quickly and depressingly so as that word: hero. Not one of our greatest tragedies, but certainly not one of our least.

Not often enough does a man come along who rebels against such hoisting. Other way around entirely. This type of man is the first to pick another up by their dirtied knee, dust them off, and send them forth. Not looking to be a savor of any sort, just there to help us along our way. Pull our hands from the chest and open up the path for our hearts to do the rest.

It's commonly believed that we lost our innocence with the Vietnam war, and this is true for the most part. Like the stroke that leaves a loved one in a coma, it is the beginning of the end, but the last rites haven't been spoken yet. Our innocence didn't truly pack it's bags and take a taxi out of town till He was gunned down. The final nail was hammered home as he fell that night, near three decades ago. The death of a man who had become a symbol of the hope we all had on reserve. In front of the misunderstood lover he had to defend once too often, with the first of the strong chill of winter taking it's foothold. We haven't found it since, and most observant people would say we won't find it again. I suppose on my best days I would be troubled to amass the fortitude to be so optimistic myself, far too many faults in my character to leapfrog over. Though I still hold true to that "nothing left to lose" mantra: hope.

Power to the people...how can you argue with that?





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Just a Thing

Dec. 6th, 2008 | 04:05 am

Thighs like silk, my embrace glancing off them like lightning...I knew I was caught in the trap. His lips were home and I hadn't been around in many years. Sweat and other far creamier bodily fluids mixed together into a cocktail of love. I forgot how good all this was. He whispered something into my right ear; didn't catch a word yet it threw me into a fit of lust. I could hear my roommate banging on the door, screaming for the noise to stop: the headboard gouging into my wall, all the moans, groans, gasps, and giggling. There was no stopping this. I've got wetdream in my arms and there is no tomorrow. No debts to be paid, calls to be made; all the future lost in the deviant present. Our lips find each other again in the dark, and I hope my grip is strong enough to hang on for the ride.

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Gobble Gobble

Nov. 25th, 2008 | 10:14 pm

I have nothing to add on anything. Guess that makes me another mindless blogger who would be better served jacking himself off while watching a softcore clip on youtube. Just love those rodeo clown ones; myself. Something about a cute guy in white face paint and a squeeky nose just drives me crazy. I've long since started calling my cock "Bull", though more after the balded court officer in Night Court then anything else really. Always thought that dim-witted monstrous uniform didn't get enough credit.

Only thing worse then being bored is having no right to be bored. All the german scat websites at the touch of my fingers with this brand new laptop, thousands of dollars of videogaming equipment behind me, sound systems up the ass, a list of books that I should be reading; it's all just shameful. Just can't bring myself to enjoy the treasures my sickening consumerism has captured in the past. But I enjoy my booze, I enjoy my chain-gang smoking, and I enjoy my music. That's something, right? All the tools for some wonderfully self-inflicted pain. Keep yourself busy while you dig that hole of pity a bit deeper for yourself.

Looking forward to Thanksgiving, not cause I'm gonna be able to see members of my family who have laid out of contact all year; no. It's a small event for the McCann household; Father and Mother dearest and myself is all. I am just looking forward to the meal. It strikes me as slightly (being kind here) pathetic, though the little things have taken greater relevance for me lately. A good meal. The occaisonal fuck. Decent whiskey. That right combo of laughter and friendship. My peepers won't reach tomorrow, so I might as well squint and enjoy the minutes of today.

Gobble Gobble.

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