Words have just felt so cheap lately. They’re fucking EVERYWHERE.

The fact of the matter is that like cheese and M&Ms and video games, words are something people at large never get tired of consuming.

But like stupid reality TV shows, breakfast cereal and pop stars, it’s all in the perpetual recombination. What’s in is IN — period.

Words are no different than any other medium. They are means to an end. Well, they can be. How does this story end? Because a story started with no ending never ends.

SO WHERE DOES THE STORY END ALREADY?!

Keeping up with the times.

It's why I have a tumblr page. You should look at it and stuff. And by "stuff" I mean masturbate furiously.

blowing through the jasmine in my mind.

Ke$ha luvs Kum

fuckit

metal sex

The Magic Number

something like

Picture = 1000 words

Feelings

It's been a little over a year since my ex-gf asked me out to dinner with the intent to break up with me, which she did. I couldn't eat Thai food for weeks.

It was one of those classic break-up moments — shock, anger, sadness, relief. She was such a trooper, never once breaking or getting emotional. I didn't cry, but I didn't exactly maintain my composure, either.

And like a lot of break-ups, very little changed. She would call incessantly, email even more. Over the course of that very weird summer, we had sex exactly once. At her place. It was actually really hot. Sigh. I'm sure we were both just scratching an itch, but still.

She didn't actually sever the cord for real until the fall. There was a moment in October where it all just fell apart. My complete reality simply crumbled. I clung to the few things I had left--my apartment, my car, the phone number of a kick-ass weed delivery service--and the rest is scattered all over the pages of this thing you're looking at right now. Yeesh, to say the least.

Thanks to the irresistible, glorious horror of social networking, I've been able to keep tabs on her since. Nothing too stalker-ish, but you know.

The first thing I noticed was the guy. He popped up so fast I'm pretty sure he was in the picture long before her & I finally broke up. But whatever. Story of my life. Of course, he was all white and shiny and pretty. So much so I thought he was her gay boyfriend for a while. But no. They were fucking. Of course. Greeeeeat.

I would see her pithy, 'I'm a cosmopolitan bitch making it happen in L.A.' updates on various social network sites, and every time my heart would just sink. Worse, it was just another line on the list of things she'd once jokingly made me swear I'd never do if we broke up. Ever have that conversation? If you do, listen closely. Trust me.

Somewhere in there, I finally just got over it all. I stopped fixating on what wasn't and made a concerned effort to change my life for the better. Lo and behold, it kind of worked.

Lately, I've noticed that her updates have lost their usual zing. Actually, they've become kind of...sad.

I don't know if the guy is outta the picture now or what, but suddenly her public profile has turned into the girl I struggled to build a relationship with: A complete lack of self-esteem, constantly belittling herself, making lame jokes about how lame she is. I quickly remembered why relief was the overwhelming sensation I felt when she dumped me.

The only thing is that now I'm starting to feel bad for her. I KNOW this girl. She's pretty, smart, hard-working, goal-oriented--I could go on. She has got her shit together, and she makes it happen for real. It's what attracted me to her.

But underneath that facade is just such a sad little mess. It used to just kill me. Mainly because I could relate. Which is where we connected: We could see in each other what we couldn't see in ourselves.

So here I am, slowly rebuilding a life on my own terms for the first time in forever. I'm not dating women because I admire their fucking business acumen. I'm dating ones that make me happy. And smile and laugh and think and come so fucking hard and kiss me sweetly for as long as I want and smoke as much weed as I do.

So I see my ex looking like the sad, lonely cat lady and it makes me sad. Then I get mad at her friends--why aren't they there lifting her up?!

But then I remember that so many of her 'friends' are these opportunistic assholes whose primary concern is being in the VIP room of the hottest party every night. In short, lots of assholes.

I can't and won't reach out to her. It would just be opening a Pandora's Box of shit that I don't want or need to deal with. Fuck THAT. Plus after the way she straight faced me when I REALLY needed her... sigh. She's not the one. It's as simple as that.

Moving on...

It's funny because they're morons

TWO Victorian men required surgery to remove slug pellets from their backsides after playfully shooting each other with an air rifle to see whether it would hurt.

The 34-year-old mates were enjoying a Sunday afternoon beer drinking session when they decided to shoot one another with an air rifle to see whether it would penetrate their skin or cause pain, Victoria Police said.

The men, from the Grampians region in Victoria's west, took it in turns to shoot each other in the backside and the leg about 5.30pm (AEST) on Sunday.

They thought they were fine but were admitted to hospital two days later requiring surgery to remove slug pellets from their rear ends and legs, police said.

The men will be interviewed by police at a later date when their medical condition improves, police said.

One man will have his firearm licence withdrawn and his firearms confiscated after the incident. (VIA AAP)

Adult DVD Marketplace dot com

Like a lot of guys, I've accumulated a decent amount of porn over the years. Nothing crazy, but a sizable stack of dirty movies that eventually get old and boring (for the most part, anyway).

I was on the verge of tossing a bunch of old porn in the trash when I had the good idea to do an internet search - there had to be a place where a guy could sell his used porn. Lo and behold Adultdvdmarketplace.com.

I've been able to unload (zing!) a lot of DVDs that would've otherwise ended up in the garbage. Money from garbage = awesome! Plus you can always use the spoils to get that all-Karla Lane compilation you've been wanting...

the corner

I'd like to think I've turned a corner.

This insane year seems to have settled into something of a groove—sort of. I've somehow been able to string together enough wins to keep this party moving forward. Best of all, I haven't completely lost my shit doing so.

That's not entirely true. My stresses do have a tendency of ganging up on me whenever I try to sleep, causing all sorts of nasty nights bleary with insomnia.

But on the good side: I'm still doing it. I've met possibly the coolest girl in the world, and from all indications she might just like me too. I know, right?--wonders never cease.

I have plenty to be thankful for. And I am.

But like most humans, I want more. It feels more like a need than a want, but whatever. But fuck—I DESERVE more. I know, I know: don't we all?

Ah, fuck it. I can always smoke a joint and get back to counting the days until the new woman in my life comes down from her faraway land to spend some time with my funky ass...

Radio silence

In telecommunications, radio silence is a status in which all fixed or mobile radio stations in an area stop transmitting.

The radio stations include anything capable of transmitting a radio signal. Radio silence generally applies to the military, where any radio transmission may reveal troop positions, either audibly from the sound of talking, or by its use as a homing signal. In extreme scenarios Electronic Silence (EMCON) may also be put into place as a defence against interception. — Wikipedia

California Love

The shit people post on Twitter

@ash8d7 this is me lickin @reshuad. theres nut on my face haha he doesnt kno im doin this surprise bitch! http://twitpic.com/1ucp24

Smokey treats

Orange juice jones

Summer is right around the corner...

homesick

Moments in life

Well then. I think it’s safe to say that by this age the cell is pretty much complete. It’s quite analogous with my entire life, really. Fitting, since it is my life.

It’s times like now that I can believe that my crackpot theories are true. If I believed in curses, mine would be to forever exist on the verge of…everything. Life. Career. That goddamned fucking “R” word relationships. Quality of fucking life, I suppose. (I know—that’s a lot of fucking. Sue me. I’m in the moment).

All of my dreams and desires, just a hair’s breath out of reach. Mental, physical, financial, whatever—I can see it, smell it, pontificate about it, give a professional on it—I just can’t touch it. That would be my cure. If I believed in such things such as curses.

The million-dollar question: where’s that last 10 percent? The last big push to make all of those murky, nebulous dreams finally, mercifully, come true?

OR

Silently and subconsciously, you begin to lower your expectations. This continues until your expectations and reality finally, mercifully match up. The sooner this happens the better. Otherwise, it can (and routinely does) get ugly.

Well I wonder. Do you see me when you sleep?

Hayley Williams of Paramore has something to show you

PotPropaganda

Massive Attack was totally fucking with me tonight

My gay neighbor

I’ve talked about this dude before. Really interesting. He definitely reminds me of Lafayette from “True Blood.” In a very real way, though. He’s all tall and effeminate, but I’ve already seen this guy go bloody diva on the front lawn with some ex-bf mid-break-up. Like crazy time.

I’m not sure what this guy does for a living. For a minute I thought he was a dealer of some sort, but I don’t think that’s the case. I don’t fucking know.

Anyway, dude has found himself a new boy-toy. I know this because his bedroom is right against mine. And for the past couple of nights, “Lafayette” and his new friend have been engaging in some hardcore and very vocal butt-fucking.

Last night someone’s anal cavity was getting a serious pounding. The bed was banging against the wall in rapid-fire succession for an inordinate amount of time at one point (are they over snorting tweek and fucking?). 


But then this morning---ohhh shit! It was like they were taking turns literally fucking the shit out of each other. Lots of high-pitched squealing “Give it to me there!” and “Come on! COME ON!”

I was cracking up. It was fascinating, really. I’m not mad, though. It sounds like they are having one hell of a good time over there. And you can’t front on that.

Happily, a very hot mama is coming over here tomorrow night. I don’t “know” what’s gonna happen, but it will be interesting to hear what things are sounding like around here deep into the night…

It’s all “Forgetting Sarah Marshall.” But not really.

This is what my life feels like right now

Welcome to my world

OK, now it's your turn.

Coachella stories

I could talk about Coachella 2010 for hours. But I'll spare you.

I will say it was FUCKING AWESOME. I saw a shit-ton of amazing music crammed into 3 fun-filled days.

Shit about Coachella this year:

*Me & my peoples totally won in terms of getting on-site/inside all three days. We got there early enough on Friday to miss all of the madness at the gate.

*I am the black MacGyver. I now have the most fool-proof method getting my weed into Coachella. Fuck you, asshole bag-checkers at the gate!

*Everybody at Coachella was smoking weed. It was awesome. I was mad stoned the entire weekend.

*My one-hitter did get clogged at the end of Sunday night though. I'll have to remember to full clean that bitch thoroughly after each night next year.

*I'm considering finding a new housing situation for next year. I'd love to go with a bunch of party freaks, get a house and fucking go for it. The place I get to stay is awesome, but you have to be all civilized. And it kinda blows.

*Jay-Z and the Gorillaz fucking OWNED that shit. The XX, Plastikman, Mayer Hawthorne, Sleigh Bells, Deerhunter, Faith No More, Flying Lotus, Major Lazer, Little Dragon, The Specials and Echo and the Bunnymen were some other personal highlights.

* I met a really amazing girl. She was a friend of a friend. We actually bunked in the same room, which was kind of...weird. Thankfully, she was mad cool and we're totally gonna be friends. So everybody wins.

*I can' wait until Coachella 2011. Can't fucking wait.

I like to smoke marijuana

(I started writing this a while ago. Finally got around to finishing it. I know--big whoop)

Crazy week. Mostly still recovering from Coachella. I definitely caught something running around like a madman in the desert. On top of that I also wrenched my knee pretty good at some point. It was all totally worth it.

Last Saturday afternoon I actually got my shit together and went down to the THC Expose at the L.A. Convention Center.

Shit was trippy. It was similar to any other youth-oriented trade show type deal (think MAGIC in Vegas or ASR in San Diego). Tons of booths sprawled across the convention floor, ranging from mundane to massive. There was a wide array of freaks walking around and taking it all in (like the dude I saw with the fully tattooed face). Scads of mostly-naked “convention girls” worked the floor, handing out everything from lighters to stickers to posing for pictures with horny twentysomething dudes who will lie and tell their friends they totally fucked her. There was one who was so skinny it was kind of scary.

As expected, there was a lot of…everything. Bob Marley t-shirts, bongs, pipes, vaporizers, yet another “system-cleansing” detox drink — you know the story.

There were a few standouts. I was impressed by “Tow & Grow,” a company that specialized in “Advanced mobile hydroponics,” which are basically mobile grow rooms.

I kinda wish I’d gone with someone, though. I was super-stoned and there by myself, so after a while I was just wandering around in a haze. Someone should have suggested that I buy a new bong. This one table had mad glass for totally decent prices.

There was a chance I was gonna meet up with this one girl. But it never happened. But she did call me the next day. And that’s when things got REALLY fan-fucking-tastic...

I am made of chalk

Back from Coachella...sort of

Um, whoa. What an amazing fucking weekend. So much amazing music, an endless array of gorgeous girls in various stages of undress, and a half-oz of extra-kind buds to keep everything nice and chill. I made Coachella my own this year, and it was fantastic. So much so that my brain is still kind of there.

This weekend, meet me at the THC Expose in downtown Los Angeles. It looks like a lot of stoney fun.

Still no cocaine

I want to go to there and live forever. Pleases?

Apparently, nothing

I gave up asking why ages ago. Still, I can’t help but wonder how things can often happen in the most bizarrely particular manner possible. Like today.

Through a “random coincidence,” I found myself having coffee with a certain person. He’s held a few distinctions in his life. Among them: The guy that hijacked a job away from me over five years ago now.

It’s the longest fucking story ever, but by doing a distant acquaintance at best a solid, I inadvertently signed my own death warrant.

Needless to say, this person and most anyone remotely close to the situation became part and parcel of my shit-list.

It wasn’t until I had a series of profound circumstances result in me becoming (drum roll please) a different person.

Basically, I genuinely let go of a lifetime worth of baggage—including the burning, white-hot hatred I’d harbored for this person for so fucking long.

So there we were. Having coffee. There has always been an easy rapport between us. But as we talked, I could quite clearly see our differences. This was a guy all about making IT happen, but only through the least effort possible. And not in a good way. Cheap, fast, never as easy as it looks and generally shoddy all around—this guy was akin to the Ikea of employees.

Ikea sells a shit-load of furniture. Our boss quickly kicked my high-maintenance ass to the curb and went with the cheap Swedish shit. Bad times.

Today, that whole camp wishes they were even a shell of their former selves. It’s all over but the shouting, as “they” say.

As we discussed what happened back in the day, he hit me with a line that kind of summed up my entire L.A. experience:

“Well, I nailed it with that first project,” he half-boasted wearily. “But that was about that. It’s not like I really had anything else to bring to the table.”

There it was. Once again, I found a way to put myself in a situation where success was not based on merit or ability, but smoke and mirrors. AKA bullshit.

It was and is common knowledge that I possess a bounty to bring to this particular table. Yet the “powers that be” decided to go with the lesser of two talents. Sound familiar? I thought so.

So when I think back to all of the time and energy I spent hating and brooding and seething and moaning my way into a deep, dark hole it’s taken forever to finally climb the fuck out of—they were off burning through the money, the legacy, all of it with nary a care in the world. The drugs, the trips, the women. The last I heard, my former boss had to sell his kitchen table to pay a utility bill.

Karma is real. And unlike anything else in life, has a tendency to be unequivocally fair. Imagine that.

Decade

Woke up. Got out of bed and hit the bathroom before assuming the position: In front of my computer atop Ikea desk in the living room.

Rolled a marijuana cigarette. Used a blend of Green Crack with a dash of Blue Dream. Checked email. Got conformation: I’d be listening to the new album by Very Big American Rock Band at 3pm.

Walked up Wilshire to the local Ralph’s grocery store. Purchased Gatorade, vanilla ice cream, sliced pineapple and a handful of Soy Joy bars. Took out $40 in cash.

On the walk back, I stopped at Roebek’s Juice. Ordered my usual (Venice Burner w/Immunibek). Shlepped everything back to the apartment.

Finished the joint from earlier. Ate a bowl of Multi-Grain Cheerios. Logged onto my computer. Spent an inordinate amount of time on Twitter, less so on Facebook.

Checked in with one Twitter girlfriend who’s been especially amorous. We exchanged dirty tweets until she wrote, “I think I just came.” At which point I jerked off, coming really hard in my Rolling Stones boxer shorts.

Contemplated buying cocaine, but decided against it. My will has been strong lately. Besides, with Coachella coming up, I’ll need that $$. I’d much rather put it towards getting at least a half-ounce of Green Crack to take with me to the desert. Not to mention the small fortune I’m sure to spend at the merch stand. No coke for me. My body is especially thankful.

Speaking of my body: For the first time in over a year, I’m seeing a significant change in it. I’ve lost a noticeable amount of weight over the past couple of years, but in odd fits and starts. Including a nice chunk of pounds over the last few weeks.

I haven’t been “fat” in years. But I’ve never been skinny. So when I look at the person in the mirror that’s bordering precariously on the verge of being, well, “ripped” for lack of a better word, it’s beyond surreal. It’s kind of scary. All I can think of is how different my life would have been if I’d even looked remotely like this 5/10/15 years ago. And then I think it’s just a delusion; I’m only seeing what I want to see. There’s no way that’s real.


After a good hour of that sort of dialogue running through my head as I stood in front of the mirror grooming myself (shaving my face/head can take a while), I got dressed.

I drove to Westwood. That’s where the Very Big American Rock Band’s management company is located. After parking in their structure, I took a few tokes on my one-hitter before going in.

The guy I met was cool. Young, Jewish—totally reminded me of that guy on TV show “Royal Pains.” He played me a bunch of new songs. They’re pretty nice. I seemed to like them more than the manager dude did.

On the way home, I listened to some Led Zeppelin. The album: “Physical Graffiti.” The song: “Ten Years Gone.” I couldn't help but marvel numbly at the opulence of Beverly Hills as I passed it by.

I have lived in Los Angeles for ten years now. I’ve never lived anyplace other than home for that long. For a majority of that time, I hated this place. But I finally surrendered to it, and now it’s all love.

Sure, I hate the drivers and the loneliness and the fact that this is the first place in the world I can’t even find myself a reliable fucking booty call, let alone a girlfriend. It’s warm, sunny and I have a sweet place for not a lot of money. I smoke amazing weed all day, every day. I do very interesting things for work. Yeah, I could use more money. Who couldn’t?

All I need is love. It’s the massive, gaping hole in my life. It has me doing all sorts of crazy things in pursuit of it. But without hope, I don’t know what I would do. Or specifically, I’m afraid of what I would do.

It doesn’t even have to be real. She can lie to me. I would pay for it, if I could afford it. The only women I can afford are not the kind that will deliver a genuine GFE, if you know what I mean.

I’ve been listening to Dr Laura a lot lately. I know—kill me now. The way she puts it, lonely people choose to be that way. Why do you volunteer to be lonely? That’s what she would say if I called her. And I don’t have an answer.