Stuff I wrote when I was high on sleeping pills.

Tuesday, July 3rd, 2007

You can only hit on women at your local supermarket using the line, “So, I was helping my elderly grandmother shop, and I noticed you were beautiful” before it starts to make you sick. Sick for a number of reasons. Sick because you’re actually helping your elderly grandmother shop, instead of, say, something more lucrative (like snorting blow off a hooker’s chest in Tijuana). Sick because you feel the need to invoke your grandmother while hitting on women. And, mostly, sick because it doesn’t work.

The thing is: I never hit on women. I have the confidence levels of a small rock (I assume since rocks have no brain, they have small, if non-existent, levels of confidence.) To say that I’m afraid of rejection is an understatement: I’m fucking terrified of rejection. I’m more afraid of rejection than I am of spiders, heights, zombies, nuclear weapons, and Mormons (possibly even more than I am of a radioactive Mormon zombie holding a spider next to a cliff)

The fear has caused me quite a bit of social anguish, mostly because it renders me unable to introduce myself to people (in fear that they might spit on me for no apparent reason.) Most of the time at social gatherings I just slump in the corner until people come to me. I realize that this is a pretty bad policy (although, in its defense, sometimes it makes me look mysterious and brooding, which is not so bad of a way to meet chicks in itself) because, most of the time I actually end up looking like a guy that just doesn’t have the balls to introduce himself.

To this day, I’ve never actually asked a woman on a date. Most of the time, I just hang around them long enough until it becomes completely obvious that we’re dating.

My ex-girlfriend threw a Twix Bar at me the other day. I’m not sure why specifically, but, in the larger sense, I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that she hates me. I’m not really sure why she hates me, but I’m sure she does (even though she denies this.) I think this because in the past, I’ve dated solely women who hate me. I used to chalk this up to a mixture of desperation and coincidence, but recently I’ve been toying with the idea of subconscious self-loathing: I hate myself so much, that the very projection of my inner hatred turns me on.

Most of my relationships start innocuous enough, and then out of nowhere, it’s a month later and she’s throwing things at me. Which makes me think, “How deluded must I be to think I can date the same type of woman, and not have things thrown at me?”

The answer to that question: Very deluded.

My last girlfriend was Scarlett Johansson, or, at least, I thought she was. In actuality, I dated a tone-dead Vietnamese girl by the name of Ling-Ling (not true, but for the sake of glaring contrast, I’m invoking my literary license). Ling-Ling was the exact opposite of Scarlett Johansson, yet for some reason I was able to pretend for the entirety of our relationship, that they were not all that dissimilar. I chalk this up to two main reasons: desperation, and laziness.

Desperation, because, when you sit in the corner of the room and brood, you don’t exactly get a lot of choices to pick from. And laziness, because, well, I’m sure it would take a lot of effort to get Scarlett Johansson to like me.

It’s not that I don’t see a lot to like in myself (I can burp the alphabet, which, in my mind, is monumentally impressive), it’s just that I can’t deal with the thought of someone not being incredibly enamored by my boyish charm, so I pretend that the women I date are well, not, incredibly flawed. Which is, in itself, very flawed.

I think I need to see a psychiatrist. I’m fucked up, yo.

Also, I don't get alot of sleep.

Sunday, July 8, 2007 – 2:15 AM

As I type this, my cat’s eating its own throw-up. I’m contemplating telling him to stop, but I realize there’s really no merit in telling a cat to stop eating its own vomit. Obviously, it still remembers throwing the food up, so it clearly knows what its doing, and who am I to tell the cat to stop eating the food, when I was perfectly cool when he did it the first time. If the cat wants to eat his own vomit, I’m not gonna intervene.

Sunday, July 8, 2007 – 2:20 AM

The cat just threw up its own throw up, that’s kinda funny.

Sunday, July 8, 2007 – 2:25 AM

Oh god, he’s eating it again. This is fucked up. Is it possible that this is all the cat eats, and that he’s been repeating this cycle for ages? Wow.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

(Alex's Note: I'm not really sure why I'm putting this up here, since it's in fairly poor taste [although, that's not incredibly uncommon for this site.] Although, it is funny, albeit one giant poop joke. Proceed with discretion.)

Today, I drove my mother to get her colonoscopy. For those of you not in the know, a colonoscopy is a procedure most people get in their fifties to check and see if they have Colon Cancer. Basically, for lack of a more direct explanation, they stick a camera up your ass.

For the past week, I’ve pretty much been making fun of my Mother non-stop. Sure, I still owe her for giving birth to me, but, they are sticking a camera up her ass. That’s just too rich to pass up. My favorite joke has been to ask her if they’re going to make a movie of it, and then imply that somehow Martin Lawrence will be starring. None of my colonoscopy jokes make a great deal of sense, but then again, a team of trained professionals anally raped my mother with a probe, so, they don’t really have to.

This all harkens back to the time when I had my colonoscopy. Yes, I had a colonoscopy. No, I didn’t enjoy it. Now, to this day I’m not really sure why I had to have a colonoscopy, but, when I was 13, I did have one.

Before you go in for the colonoscopy, you have to fast for 48 hours, and on top of that, you have to make sure that your Colon is completely empty. And what can ensure Colon emptiness better than the almighty Enema. For those of you not in the know, an enema is a device used to stimulate bowel movement. Basically, it’s a baby bottle you use to squirt water into your asshole. Here’s a step-by-step guide to the process:

1. You take your pants off, and extend your ass high into the air.
2. Check to make sure you’re not in prison.
3. Wonder why you didn't do step 2 before you took your pants off and extended your naked ass.
4. Insert tip of bottle into ass.
5. Try not to scream.
6. Squeeze the bottle.
7. Try not to scream.
8. Once the bottle is empty, pull it out of your ass and throw it as far away as you can.
9. Wait five minutes, ass extended in the air.
10. When you cannot honestly hold the crappy shit water inside you any longer waddle to the bathroom.
11. Be sure not to shit on the floor on the way over to the bathroom.
12. Finally, once on the toilet, let loose your anal dexterity.
13. Marvel at the waterfall of shitwater coming out of your ass.
14. Briefly wonder if this is what it feels like to pee as a woman.
15. Once the shitwater has finally passed, breathe a sigh of relief.
16. Spend a good few minutes wiping everything off your ass.
17. Flush the toilet.
18. Oh shit, it’s clogged!
19. Run!
20. Repeat 3 more times.

As for the colonoscopy itself, it’s incredibly comparable to anal rape. First they put me in a nice waiting room, made me comfortable, then they drugged me, and put a large metal tube up my ass.

I’m sure in some doctors office lies photographs of what the inside of my ass looks like. Since I actually haven’t seen the photos, I imagine it looks somewhat like Cancun.

I don’t actually remember much of the colonoscopy itself, since I was pretty heavily drugged, but I do remember one thing. I briefly woke up during the middle of the procedure and felt a good amount of pressure on my ass. I looked around and saw a tube, and in a semi-conscious state I yelled, “Stop stealing my poop!” I don’t really remember my reasoning as to why the doctor would want to “steal my poop” (or why anyone would want to steal my poop, for that matter)

Turns out, I didn’t have colon cancer. So, basically, they stuck a camera up my ass for no apparent reason. When I get famous, that video better not end up on youtube.

Yes folks, that’s how I lost my anal virginity… to a probe.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

What continues to surprise me is my unfailing ability to be miserable everywhere I go. What doesn’t surprise me at all is that I was miserable all throughout my family’s 3 day vacation to Maine.

Some have asked me what I have against the state of Maine, and to be honest, I’m not really sure. But this much is certain: I do not like Maine.

I’ve never had any reasoning for this argument, and all my attempts to argue against it fall flat (“The only thing Maine is famous for is lobster! Lobster is over-priced shit! …Even though, admittedly, I love lobster.”) But just because I can’t explain myself doesn’t mean that inside me doesn’t exist a hatred as large and grotesque as Rosie O’Donnell.

Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh yeah, Maine sucks.

I really need to get some sleep.