Hello, guitar-wielding internet personas. Today, I haven't had a cigarette.
Today was a shitty day. It's not that I can't smoke. It's not that I'm fourteen and can't buy them for myself. It's not even that I don't have any money to purchase that delicious cancer. Nope.
I get bitched at when I come in, and smell like smoke. Also, mum has been home all day. And mum has a migraine. And EVERY. FUCKING. THING sets her off. I lit a match after laying some stanky logs, she was peering in my door within five seconds flat. "You been smoking inside?" "No." "Then why does it smell like smoke DON'T YOU FUCKING LIE TO ME YOU'VE BEEN SMOKING" I hold up the box of matches and display the burnt match, "Oath, fucker."
And then that gets her off on another little fit about burning the house down.
My god, I would sacrifice my grandmas dog to Satan if he had a ciggie for me when he came to collect. I don't think I could send my mom with him though. Not yet. I'm saving that favor up for when Menopause hits and she starts flipping shit hardcore. Women.
I've got some Nyquil, and some bad thoughts floati
I've been having trouble sleeping lately. So I did what any sane a rational person does when confronted by the shuffling monster of insomnia. I went to the goddamn store to get some Nyquil. As I walked past the shelves, red-eyed and swearing faster than a scandinavian with Tourettes, I noticed something strange. IN place of the Nyquil, there was NO Nyquil. There was some Theraflu shit. As I said to myself 'WHAT FOUL TRICK IS THIS, THAT DARE SMASH MY 'QUIL IN TWAIN' with a roar, and a swift kick to the nearest employee, I saw out of the very corner of my eye a sight that I at first mistook for a hallucination.
But this was not like the others, backward-mouthed and loathing. It was wearing a bright pink shirt and a nametag that read 'Ken'. This was, indeed, the very manager who I threatened with a steak knife about the very thing that happened.
As I was gearing up to punch him in the face with all the power of a 5'9, 130lb young insomniac (with a pretty wicked left hook), he said "DON'T DO IT.", which my fevered mind translated as 'I SUCK DONKEY PENIS'. As I gaped at him for letting me in on one of his sick fetishes, he said something else. "WE'VE GOT ALL THE NYQUIL THAT WAS HERE, IN THE BACK, MARKED DOWN 90%". Atleast, that's what he told me afterwards, I thought he said 'SHIT' and then immediately afterwards, 'ALIENS'.
"where!?', I shouted, punching another employee, and missing. Shifty devil fevermind. He took me by my collar, and led me to the back, where lo and behold before my very eyes, was a pallette of nyquil. I'm talking big boxes of little boxes of the things you buy on the shelf.
This truly was my lucky day. As I strutted out of there with a thousand dollars of Nyquil (and lesserly potent Dayquil, Nyquils straight-edge gay cousin), loaded it on the back of my truck, and drove to my house, I saw blue lights in the rearview. I thought about gunning it, but then realized I wouldn't be able to keep up. My brain, after being on a caffeine and adderall learning binge for the past week was finally starting to crash. So I snorted some coke to wake me up.
Long story short, I got my Nyquil, he let me off with a warning, and that's why the streets are full of Meth right now.
In the month or so since I've last had contact with UG(I've been lurking), I got a job promotion to Pricing Assistant Manager at Winn-Dixie. That's, like, a big step up, man. Pay raise, steady hours (If you've ever worked for Winn-Dixie, you would know that they always let the most emotionally unstable, nutjobby whacko do the scheduling for the front end, and they cut your hours down to nothing if you ask for a day off), and no more chasing shopping carts around the parking lot. Now no one can call me their buggy bitch ever again.
You know who you are. :I <3
The only downside to this is that I've got to be there at 6, so I wake up at five and get some homework done before I'm in WD for eight hours. But that's fine, it's not like I'm busy anyways. Honestly, I pretty much spend all my time on Facebook. >.>
Facebook is the Meth of this generation. It's addicting, and people would rather do it than be sleeping. -sniffs- Because of that, I've got a whacked-out sleep rhythm, man. And even worse is that whenever I go to bed at 9:00pm, like a normal person, I wake up around 12 or 3am, and hop out of bed all excited to start the day, only to realize that it's waaaaaaaay early in the fucking morning and day isn't gonna be here for another 4 hours. Fuck that, man. I am NOT getting my spirits lifted just to go back to bed. :I I haven't done that since I got out of High-School. Fuck that, man. Fuck it with a big German sausage!
So, I stopped sleeping. I loaded up on Monster and Red Bull and black coffee(Because cocaine is too much for my meager salary), and just straight did night-things(Besides sleeping). When I went to work, I made it until 1pm, and slowly started crashing. By 1:15, I was pretty much useless, so I did pricing for the wine. It's organized by colour, not by type or alphabetically. Probably so all the illiterate drunks in this town can find their fix. No one in the store will bother you when you're organizing wine, because they don't want to be asked for help.
This is how we should start stocking the wine.
So now, I'm self-medicating to get my sleep schedule normalized, where I can get some decent sleep and not pass out later.
Just remember: Every time you go shopping, atleast 10 people have handled that product before you. And not always with their hands.
Today, I decided to pop on UG for the first time inm like, ages. I saw that I had a huge obscene number of views, which is funny, because I haven't used this page in... Forever, feels like. Who the hell are you people, and why are you checking my page? IN some false hope that someday, I'll come back? Probably not, because I'm not exactly famous. >.> Nor interesting.
If any of you are interested in what I've been up to, then you're probably either friends with me on Facebook, Deviantart, or Skype. Or whatever other new-agey internettikins has been produced lately. I got called short (At 5'10, I am a rather stout individual), and since then have been increasingly paranoid about tall people.
I get this fantasy where I cut their legs off, and look them in the eyes. Since then, I've begun staying away from power tools.
I've learned Combat Sambo from Abi, my Russian buddy.
We have begun shooting popcans from 325ft. away with .22s, because he wants us to be prepared for the apocalypse, and I like shooting things. :3
Russians are insane.
We've come up with a design that will render these inefficient gas-powered weed whackers obsolete. I call it 'Goat on a Stick'.
^That's my parting words to my boss. Not "I'm thinking about quitting, and shoving my fist through your head. I'm still deciding which to do first.". All you guys in Regional, you'll be fine without me. >.>
My uncle came to visit us this weekend. We were playing Scrabble, when he leaned over the table and said "Did you know, that in Cold War Era america, you would've been drafted by the CIA to spy on the Russians? Because I could totally see you as a double agent.". We then proceeded to sing Secret Agent Man in high falsetto voices, and do somersaults around the house and point our fingers at other family members.
Because that's how we roll. Somersaults! D:<
I work for Winn-Dixie now, and despite everyone saying "We're like a family!", it will never be anything more than a paycheck to me. My coworkers are a constant source of amusement and sadistic tricks. So far, I've locked one person in the freezer, another guy is damn sure that I'm a Russian spy(AGAIN WITH THE RUSSIANS. REALLY.) and a chubby mentally handicapped girl has a crush on me. I think I'll lock her in a freezer, too. >.>
Also, Repo! The Genetic Opera is an amazing musical, and it's easy to catch fish with pantyhose.
That being said, I still won't be updating regularity for the simple fact that half of you probably forgot about me, and the other half wishes me dead for being so damn unforgettable. As it is, I've been really happy (and busy) lately. THe cool thing about having no time is that you don't have to feel anything anymore. In between my part-time job, full-time acting career, full college load and booming social life, I haven't had time to sleep in about a week. I've been skipping sleep to talk to Jorrdana, who just got back from Illinois (I've missed her so).
And in her travels, she saw the Devil House, the House Without Corners, in INternational House of Pancakes and other notable architectural wonders. I saw the outside of a parkinglot, and felt the dry sting of Florida heat. Lucky girl.
And from this day forth, I'm going to try my best to become a sassy, older black woman.
I'LL SEE YA'LL LATAH, I NEED TO RUN OUT TO DA CLUB AND GIT SOME WUH-ISKY FO' MY CHILLUNS.
I’m by no means a great artist.I love doing quick sketches of conceptual
thinking (not rubbish), I love old, dirty chairs, and by GOD, I love
honeyham.I could eat it until I’m
nothing more than a fat man who lives alone in a loft, drawing rabbits to amuse
the Artlessly Confused society.And
In fact, one of my greatest wishes is to have clothes made of honeyham. That way, if necessity dictated it, I could become nekkid in a matter of moments, with no spare change of clothes in sight. A mystery that would baffle even the most auspicious INspectour Closeau!
But I digress.The
‘art’ that the Higher Patriarchs of Artism is just rubbish(Garbage, to you Americans).When I went to a High End art show a few
summers ago, I stayed in a ratty motel(the difference from a hotel being that a
motel is a single story, and the swimming pool is green), and while I stayed at
this motel, my friends and I lived on pizza, soda, and the spare eggroll.We would sometimes get free pizza by putting our hair into a lot of
small pigtails, then answering the door with a high voice, thus frightening away our money-grubbing pizzaboy.
As our motel room slowly began to get over run by stray
pizza boxes and Pizza King uniforms, we decided to just move it all into a box,
and put the box on the corner.We
sharpied our names into the uniform to mark our territory, and went back into
the motel to change and get ready for the last day of the expo.When we left the motel, the box was
We soon found the box, however (as well as the marked
uniforms) inside a last-minute section of the expo.It was a crowning example of scavengerism and
the hopelessly artless art that pervaded the exhibit.“The pizza boxes represent the laziness of
man, and the piss-stained uniforms exhibit the growing decline of American
passion!”The price tag was
Now, since I could really use that kind of money, I’m going
to go eat pizza, steal pizzaboy uniforms, then piss on everything.As my grandpa used to say, “Art sells, but
only to those who buy it.”.I think I’ll
take that under consideration, and begin catering to exclusively high-end
British artist types.Because ArtGod knows—If there’s one thing they love more than art, it’s the scent of human pee
and pizza grease!
(Note:I would never
steal a pizza boy uniform, they smell atrocious)
So, I've been in a play at the Opera House, rehearsing my parts. Debut is in three weeks, we've got no clue what we're doing, and by GOD, WE KEEP GOING OVER THIS ONE GUYS BARITONE LINE. It's sad when the regulars can't learn their parts, so we've got to keep going over them, which slows us down, which puts us waaaay behind schedule.
I hate amateurs/people who can't tell which part is there's, so they just move up on Tenor. Then, they croak. It's even worse when they're twenty years older, and don't think they need help from a stupid nineteen year old kid. WELL, when the guy in question is majouring in music theory, it would be beneficial to your part to listen to 'the stupid kid'. :/
AND NOW, (I just found this out) a guy who no one knows is hanging out in the main room with a gun in his pants, watching us. It's childrens theatre, and there are, like, forty kids in there, and some freak is in there with a gun. -sigh- Also, he looks like Jim Gaffigan.
"I like to see the kiddies dance."
I don't feel safe, knowing we're being watched by an Indiana comedian.
On an unrelated note, painting while listening to loud classical music makes you feel all professional and stuff. S'awesome. Try it. :3
So lately, I've been walking around at night because I can't sleep.
^Doesn't work. I might as well be snuffing crystal meth for all the good it did.
I've tried everything, sleeping pills, working out an extreme bunch(all that happened was I got all muscley), support groups, even having copious amounts of sex! Nothing works.
but I digress.
Last night, as I was walking through the public park, whistling There Ain't no Rest For the Wicked (It seemed appropiate at the time), I saw a shadow of a man slip out of sight. He put a knife against my back, and said 'Give me all you got', it was pretty clear he wasn't lookin' for a fight.
But he got one. Growing up during the Troubles pretty much gave me, how you say... Above par fighting skillz(I learned a mix of Judo and Krav Maga. I've got a black belt in both, according to American standards.).
Broken bones sound awful. Absolutely awful. And then the screaming. Blergh. On the bright side, it was just a teenage porchmonkey looking to make some spare money, not a career hobo.
Yo dawg, mugging people in the park is the BEST EVER. Best ever.
On the bright side, I slept well. I guess violence is all I really need to sleep. My dreams run on pain!
And since I'm the new something-or-other, (should I even be talking about this?) I'll be on UG a little more often. Look forward to updates from my daily life, not just whenever something happens.